Time and again
by MediEvil Ways
Summary: What if the myth never happened, Albion was never united, but remained a torn country and Arthur never rose to initiate the golden age? How did that happen and what can Merlin do to set it right? COMPLETE! Pl. r&r.
1. Prologue: Crystallised

Summary: What if the myth never happened, Albion was never united, but remained a torn country and Arthur never rose to initiate the golden age? How did that happen and what can Merlin do to set it right? Kinda angsty. Stay away from this if you suffer from claustrophobia.

Disclaimers: All is BBC's. Save OC Phyllida E. Dewhurst, who is my invention.

A/N: This story is set right between The Sorcerer's Shadow and The Coming of Arthur. Morgana has yet not seized the throne. I'm taking my time here, and if you are impatient by nature, you probably shouldn't read this. If you like, however, really to submerge yourself in a story, please dig in and enjoy yourself. The chapters, apart from the prologue, will be rather long.

**TIME AND AGAIN**

PROLOGUE

**Crystallised**

As winter finally released its bone cold grip in the hungry land and its starving people, the days grew longer and the light warmer. The forest floor didn't wait long, but sprouted its eager little windflowers that had so little time to suck up the sunshine before the leaves hungrily closed their window of opportunity, and soon a yellow and white carpet of the beautiful little spring announcers was knitted for young girls to pick and make wreaths of for their golden and brown heads. Beeches, copper and otherwise, were eager to stretch their leaves and soon competed as to being the first to boast their full crowned beauty to the world.

A young man with black hair and a lean face sporting high cheekbones stuck his face out through the window, greeting the sun and the already nosy little sparrows and blue titmice, who never wasted time, but exploded in vivid arias, one trying to outpass the other. The young man bestowed a wide smile on the little birds and sent a longing glance at a beautiful and lithe young girl, who had no qualms of returning his flirting approach.

Spring was here, and like everybody else, Merlin felt its attractions and temptations. As he pulled his head back with the rueful sigh that another work day was looming over his head, his eye caught the shape of Lady Morgana, who strode past the city walls of Camelot. Merlin stuck out his head again, straining his neck to follow the form that so quickly vanished round the corner, evidently trying not to be seen. It wasn't the first time he had seen the lady coming home late from nightly excursions. He just wished he knew where she had been. Now and then he had succeeded in following her, yet usually losing the trail after a while. His kind mentor and protector, Caius, had warned him about being so keen on stalking the lady; the young warlock had no one to back him up and if he was caught by some scheme by Morgana, there would be nobody to help him.

Merlin knew that, of course. In an ideal world, Prince Arthur would know his secret and watch his back, just as he, in hiding, was watching his. But this was not a perfect world, and King Uther's cruel laws about magic forced him to work in secrecy and keep his gift hidden.

Basically, thus, Merlin was on his own.

"How about something to eat?" Gaius cried after him as he saw the backside of his apprentice disappear through the door.

"I'm late!" Merlin yelled back and took the hallway in three steps. _Again!_ thought Gaius. This boy would be late for his funeral.

"You're late!" Prince Arthur concluded, "...again!"

"I'm sorry," Merlin huffed, ripping the curtains aside and starting his 'rise and shine' until the prince threw something at him that he ducked easily. Nothing had changed over night, and why should it?

Arthur's breakfast was a little burned, but still his manservant's belly couldn't keep still when he served the food for him.

_Growl!_

"Merlin!" said Arthur, annoyed, "one thing is that you serve me burned food, another is that you won't let me eat it, at least, in peace!"  
>"I'm sorry," Merlin said, "I really can't help it." And as emphasis, his stomach growled again, this time louder. "<em><strong>Mer<strong>_lin!"  
>"I'm sorry, I'm sorry – I'll go now."<br>"You'll do no such thing. I have several chores for you."  
>"The-en, you'll have to bear my belly growling. I really can't do anything to alleviate it." After which statement, his stomach growled even louder for effect.<br>"What's _**wrong **_with you?"  
>"No breakfast this morning."<br>Arthur scoffed and leaned back, his expression one of vexation. "For heaven's sake. Go, then – and have some breakfast in the castle kitchen. And don't bloody well come back until your stomach is absolutely mute."

The prince didn't have to say that twice. His manservant instantly scooted out the door and proceeded down the hallway, fully intending to go to the kitchen when suddenly he caught a glimpse of Morgana … going out again.

That was strange... He had just witnessed her return from some nightly activity and now she was going out again? Merlin immediately changed direction and silently started to follow the sorceress.

Having completely forgotten about his starving stomach, the young warlock continued to stalk the King's ward, who proceeded to leave the castle, wearing a brown, nondescript cape as opposed to the brilliantly blue she usually favoured. Clearly, she was undercover.

Outside, the day was already busy, merchants, shoppers, travellers and others hurrying by, hardly even noticing the tall, caped woman, who kept to the shadows even on this beautiful sunny day. When she came to the town wall, she quickly stepped round a corner and entered an alley that was devoid of both people and shops. Merlin thought he knew every inch, corner and pebble of Camelot, but this place was new to him. At the end of the alley, a tall wooden fence blocked for passage and the young sorcerer bent down behind a barrel to see where Morgana's intentions would take her and how she would go on from here. To his great surprise, she fingered a plank in the fence that accommodatingly gave way and let her through. Somebody had prepared the way for her, for Merlin was confident that she hadn't loosened that plank herself.

After a few seconds, he followed suit, being particularly careful, not having forgotten what happened the last time he followed after Morgana into the woods. He rubbed his neck; he could still feel where the serket had stung him.

At first, he had lost track of the swift lady, however by sending out a mute spell, he extended his hearing and eventually caught her light footsteps going west. Carefully he followed, stopping now and then to extend (literally) his ears, looking back to ensure that nobody followed _him_. Two hours later, he finally heard her slow down and eventually stop. As he stopped also, he took time to scrutinise his surroundings and that's when he realised with a gasp.

He'd been there before.

However, not with Morgana – with Arthur; Merlin concentrated as he threw back his memory. They were running, fleeing. Ruffians were coming and attacking them from all directions, and they kept coming. Arrows. Arthur was hurt! And that's when it hit him like the arrow that had hit his prince. This was the area where the crystal cave was situated!

x

"Gaius, have you seen Merlin?"

Before the court physician stood a very angry prince. Gaius cocked an eyebrow.

"No, not since this morning? What has he done?"

Arthur leaned forward, his fists on his hips.

"What's he done? It's not what he has done – it's what he hasn't done!"

"What do you mean, Sire?"

"Soft-hearted and generous as I am, I gave him leave to get some breakfast in the castle kitchen before he was to return and do some chores for me. And what happens?"

Arthur made a break for effect, yet procrastinated perhaps a little too long.

"I don't know, Sire, what did happen?"

"Oh … erm, he never returned!"

Gaius' brow furrowed. "That's not like Merlin," he murmured.

Arthur noticed, suddenly, that the old man's concern was real. "So .. you haven't seen him?"

"No," Gaius said, hesitantly, "and it has been .. how long?"

"Three hours," Arthur said, his anger now utterly evaporated.

x

Trying very hard to look like a trunk, the young warlock moved from tree to tree, closing in on the Crystal Cave. Extending his ears again, he could now hear Morgana's voice, which meant, of course, that she was talking to someone. As he steadily and stealthily moved closer, he was almost certain that that someone was Morgause, which was no surprise to him. Evidently the two sisters kept having these meetings in the forest; never before, however, had he encountered them during daytime – or in this specific area. Merlin held his breath. He was finally by the cave.

As the warlock crept along the cave wall, one careful step at a time, the voices grew gradually louder and the display of emotion was easier to interpret. Morgause sounded frustrated, her sister less so, though trying to calm the blonde sorceress down. One step more and Merlin was forced to crouch behind a rock to avoid detection. The lanky lad swiftly bent down, doing his best to still his breath and his hammering heart. Yes, there they were, among all the glittering crystals that instantly disturbed Merlin's eyes with all their moving images. He shut his eyes tight, refusing to let himself be drawn in by them, and resorted to listening instead.

"... patience, sister. You will learn by time, I am sure of it."  
>"I need to learn now! Damn it. Why won't these blasted crystals talk to me!"<p>

Morgana looked closely at one of the crystal stalactites. "I remember that Alvarr was very keen to get the one that was secured underneath the castle. He hoped that Mordred, the druid boy, would be able to wield it."

"Perhaps by time, the boy will be powerful enough, who knows. But we need to know now, sister." Morgana's half sister turned round to look at yet another transparent crystal. "Why can't I know this out," she murmured.

"I do not understand what you anticipate they will do," Morgana said, "when I look at them, I see various colours, winking at me as they are reflected by objects nearby, but that is all."  
>"Your magic is not yet strong enough," Morgause stated, his voice still hard with disappointment, yet perhaps with our joined effort ..."<p>

She turned to Morgana and grabbed her hands. "Perhaps we can do it. If we concentrate hard and long enough, we may be able to break the secret of the crystals. Get ready, sister, throw your mind into our mutual pool of magic and repeated after me ..."

_GROWL_.

"What was that?"

Behind his rock, Merlin grimaced with vexation. Oh no. His blasted stomach. Still, if he kept perfectly still, they might just ignore …. _Groooooowwwwlll._

_**Bother!**_

"Who is there? **Come out**!" Morgause boomed, raising her hands into magic position. Merlin bit his lip. Perhaps he could make a run for it? He certainly didn't fancy the serkets again. And this time for sure the dragon wouldn't be able to help him, its size being incapable of squeezing through the cave entrance. No, running would probably be the wisest action. After all, he was here on his own – nobody had his back.

However, before he even had a chance, his shielding rock mysteriously disappeared into thin air and his crouching form sat face to face with Morgause's vengeful face.

Morgana gasped. "You!"

"Me," Merlin admitted lamely. "Beautiful place you have here."

With a roar of annoyance, Morgause threw the skinny manservant's body into the air where it connected with the rock surface from whence he slid down like a rag doll, every part of him hurting.

"You have spied on us for the last time!" Morgause said, furious, taking her sister's hand while still showering Merlin with spells with the other. "I will not make the same mistake twice, though I cannot for the death of me grasp how you got out of that one."

And without further ado and without Merlin ever having a chance to eel himself out of this catastrophe, the two sisters chanted as one and sent spell after spell towards the thin boy's body that instantly started to convulse.

_I must do something about this! Can't hide my magic any more! If I do, I will die here!_

But he couldn't breathe, couldn't think and slowly an icy feeling crept up his legs and proceeded up his spine. Already he was unable to move hos body but his eyes that he rolled downwards to discover that the entire lower part of his body was encapsulated in … was it crystal?

Another spell from Morgause hit him right on the jaw that jerked up as if he had had an uppercut and he felt how whatever was encasing him now moved up and covered his torso.

_**NO**_! This could not be right! This was not his destiny!

_**Ásvège afol Merlin bebyrge cwic**_

And this last enchantment did it. Merlin felt every breath forced out of his lungs, his muscles frozen and his brain dulled. With one last effort, he managed to open his eyes, but was unable to blink. What he saw made a wave of icy and intense shock travel through his spine and to his heart. The two sisters were hazy images through the crystal surface, both of them smirking, and round them were hundreds of moving visions. And he could not close his eyes.

Had he had breath, he would have screamed.

xxx

Oyoyoyoy – how is Merlin getting out of this one? Sorry for this cliffie – couldn't be otherwise, I'm afraid. ;)  
>Tell me, please – should I continue?<p> 


	2. Artefact

Next instalment! I fear that there is little interest for this fic, but one, at least, has made it his/her favourite and that merits another chapter. :-)

**Disclaimers**: Phyllida E. Dewhurst is mine, but the rest of BBC's – no infringement intended.

CHAPTER 1

**Artefact**

Wales, year 2012

Phyllida E. Dewhurst looked at herself in the mirror with a certain trepidation. For the umpteenth time she had tried to dye her hair another colour and she wasn't sure what it would look like this time. Being one of those rare persons who was born with genuinely carrot-red hair, Phyllida did her damnedest to get rid of it. Unfortunately, hair of such a light red colour could always be counted on producing the most extraordinary shade when dyed. It was, apparently, a law of nature, and one that Phyllida repeatedly challenged with zest.

The 28-year-old Ph.D.-student of archaeology reached for the towel that was wrapped round her offending hair with almost trembling hands. This time she had opted for a dark brown colour in the vain hope that the darkness of the dye would overwrite any diluting effect that the red hair could muster. Slowly, by inches, she removed the cover and saw … black hair! Black hair with a purple shine to it! Phyllida threw the towel to the floor in anger. _I don't be__**lieve**__ it!_

It was not supposed to be black! The container had distinctly said UMBRA BROWN! and a very nice brunette had been shown on the box. It shouldn't be black!

The next item subjected to her annoyance was the container itself as it sailed out of the open window in her top floor flat. Only afterwards did her conscience remind her that she might actually have hit someone passing by in the street. Grumbling and listing several terrible atrocities she'd like to do to her hair and the dye manufacturer, the archaeologist proceeded to dress. At least, the rest of her body remained reasonably passable. She viewed herself critically in the mirror. Apart from the freakish hair, she was a relatively attractive woman. Granted, she was no model, but she was slim (her father thought she was too thin, but then, he was of the older generation who generally liked women to be voluptuous to the extreme) and quite muscular, compliments to several field trips of excavations, her face was freckled (that came with the red hair as did the pale hue), but oval in a nice balanced way and her eyes were auburn, a colour she actually liked. Now, why couldn't her hair have been auburn – oh, and her nose a little bigger; she put a finger to her tiny button nose.

The young woman sighed, knowing full well that she was a lucky girl; so many people were less blessed by life, being disabled, disfigured or struck by poverty. Of course, it most definitely depended on where you lived. Wales, her home state, was basically taking care of her inhabitants, yet her neighbour to the east, West Anglia, was infamous for the gruesome taxes and lack of social aide. However, if you travelled through West Anglia and came to Moor, wealth might be found there as well. Phyllida shrugged, digging round in her jewellery box to find matching bracelets. This was not a perfect island; the various states were fighting each other at any chance they got, often leading their relationships to the brink of war. Fortunately, there hadn't been a war for the past 40 years, but it did leave over half the British states in a terrible economic state, their deficits the size of the Russian continent.

Well … by taking her Ph.D. she was avoiding poverty for sure; Phyllida flung her bag over her right shoulder and exited her flat. Today was library day; field day wouldn't be until Wednesday.

x

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence was the one thing he had come to love and come to hate.

Silence.

The occasional drip from water that quite possibly had penetrated the cave.

Silence.

STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP.

He knew that of he continued like this, he would go mad. Mad.

Mad?

He would have laughed if he could. Mad? He was already mad.

Concentrate. Concentrate. It was not in vain. The powder was almost complete. He just needed a little more sulphur. Where was it again? Oh, yeah, outside. Outside. Outside. CONCENTRATE.

Silence.

So his mind reached. Reached. Reached. As far as it could get. Outside.

Silence.

To get the sulphur. It was possible.

To finalise the powder. Perfect it.

Silence. Concentrate. Someone would come. Someone must come. And then the powder would have to be ready. Concentrate. There it is.

Silence.

Silence.

x

Caerleon. A godforsaken place, Phyllida thought. Yet, after having researched the references carefully, this was allegedly the place where Knights Templar had had one of their monasteries. The young student sat crouching in her borrowed car, fighting a lost battle with the map as it seemed to grow at each turn she needed to make. "Must be magic," she murmured, annoyed. They could send a man to Mars, but they couldn't make a road map that was easily handled. Carmarphen, Carephilly. Eventually she found what she was looking for. Catching a glimpse of her newly black hair in the rear-view mirror and getting just as annoyed as when she had seen it the first time, Phyllida put the car into gear and re-entered the motorway to reach her destination. Driving far out in the country didn't bother her. She had participated in excavations in the Andes Mountains and Himalayas and that was a good deal colder and more desolate than this, she thought.

It had already turned quite dark when she finally arrived; a wrong turn at a place where the road sign had been torn down (probably) by young jokers had taken her by surprise and led her to a ghost village; a detour that cost her 90 minutes! Now that she was here, however, the darkness didn't worry her. She used the headlights of the car to help her put up the camp and even managed to heat herself some tea before turning in.

The next morning a thick fog had enveloped the entire area, which made Phyllida very happy that she had camped so close to the site the night before. At least, she wouldn't have to grope her way through this soup. Reheating the tea, she yawned and quickly stuffed her mouth with bread and jam and started checking her gear. Phyllida loved field trips! She couldn't wait to get out of the tent and onto the site, armed with all kinds of tools and articles to help her examine artefacts and tracks. Donning baggy army trousers, a white polo t-shirt and sensible hiking boots, she was ready to conquer the archaeological world. She had set up camp only 20 yards from the site, making sure no tracks had been contaminated by her car and camp. Anyway, it's not like it was an excavation, unfortunately; Phyllida was only there to have a look at a flat stone that was believed to be engraved by Knight Templar symbols. Of course, there might still be other traces nearby which was why she still needed to be very careful.

Despite the fog, she managed to locate the stone soon enough. As she pushed away the leafy branch that covered it, she couldn't stop a broad smile from spreading over her face, beaming away like father Christmas. There it was! She reached for her gear which made the branch flick back in place as she let go of it, covering up the stone again. Phyllida took a small leaf trimmer from her gear and nipped off the twigs, disclosing the stone into plain view. It was beautiful! Weathered and withered, but still with clear markings – that could be construed as the famous Knight Templar code. The Ph.D. student took out a very small, soft brush from her gear bag, edged a little closer and carefully started brushing away dirt and moss. Slowly, the symbols began to stand out more clearly. There was a square with a dot in the left corner … and a square without dots … brushing on, she could make out a triangle – that would be either an x, y, v or z. Phyllida wrote it all down, adding her notes. Naturally, the symbols had already been registered and published, but the point of field trips was to see if the next researcher could find something new.

That was it, she rose to her feet, dusting herself down with some difficulty as the moist leaves and twigs effectively glued themselves to her clothes. She continued to concentrate on the dirty trousers and not so much on where she put her feet, which had the expected result in a weather like this with zero visibility: She fell!

With a crack and an ouch, she scooted down a slope, the wet grass making a terrific slide, and didn't stop until she banged into a humongous root. After moaning plaintively, she extricated her legs from the roots and attempted to get up.

And that's when it happened. The roots, as if they suddenly came alive, moved and mud and dirt slid down into a hole … followed by Phyllida, screaming on the top of her lungs.

No more!

Silence! Silence no more!

What is? Quick.

Powder. Powder finished? Silence no more.

Time.

It is time.

Okay, perhaps the fall really wasn't so deep. However, it was deep enough for her to see absolutely zilch once she dared open her eyes for falling dirt and pebbles. Phyllida blinked placidly, sneezing a bit from all the dust and plant spores and tried to focus and get some idea of where she was. She was patiently waiting for her eyes to get used to the dark when she felt a draught. Concentrating on the sensation, she moved her head to the source of the air current and tentatively reached out an arm in the direction. She was right! As she fumbled in the dark, her fingers caught a hole. And not just any hole: a rock cavity of which the edges obviously and unmistakably were carved by Man.

Elated by the kind of enthusiasm only an archaeologist can feel when a thesis is waving at her from a distance, Phyllida shot up from the hole. She had found something! And she was most likely the first on the spot! The carved rock entrance would carry her name: Rock entrance P.E. Dewhurst! Excited to the point of hysteria, Phyllida threw herself into the car and pulled out her I-pad. She knew there was no connection to the Internet out here, so she couldn't publish her findings and claim them already, but she could at least dictate them to the programme and tag the date and time, and that would have to suffice as ownership proof. As she entered the tent to get other registration tools, she forced herself to calm down. _Take five_, _Phyl_, she told herself, _count to 1000 and relax_. _Otherwise you might miss something._

Armed with a rope, her I-pad, her gear and various cleaning fluids, she returned to the site and methodically started to secure the rope round a strong looking ash; once done, she secured the rope just as professionally round her shoulder, down her back and under her upper thigh and back into her hand. She had packed a second rope in her bag in case she would have to rappel further down later depending on how deep this monastery (as she suspected it was) was. Once safely rooted on the spot where she first felt the rock entrance, she turned on her head lamp and for the first time saw the entrance with her own eyes.

She gasped, almost unable to hold back a joyous squeal. It was, without a single shred of doubt, man-made. Several ornaments adorned the rock surface of the entrance and she didn't, she thought with boundless delight, know or recognise any of it! It certainly wasn't Knight Templar – it clearly was something very different. Very gingerly she began to remove the dirt from the opening, having just a little guilty conscience; this really should be reported to the proper authorities before anything was done to it; however, an opportunity like this was just too good to miss!

After almost an hour of diligent digging, Phyllida wiped her sweaty brow and froze. There was a rumbling sound. Knowing full well what it was, she quickly retreated, crabbing her way back edgewise and came free of the excavation just in time: A curtain of dirt, twigs and mud came rolling down and revealed a cave, only _underneath _Phyllida instead of, thankfully, above her head. She patiently waited till the last rumble had died out and the dirt stopped moving and then she carefully crabbed her way back, gently stamping the walls with her hands in a vain attempt to make them stick. Then she risked her neck literally, as she stuck her head through the rock hole.

_**Wow**_. She really should wait for back-up. If this thing caved in on her head, no one would find her. Then she blinked and very, very gently moved her head round to let her head lamp illuminate the cave.

_My-dear-god!_

Aladdin's cave! One crystal after the other shone back, reflecting a rainbow of colours on their surroundings as the light fell on them. Stalagmites, stalactites, small and big, broad and slim, short and tall – all crystal. She gasped.

Barely able to contain her exuberance, she carefully retracted her head. This was where she needed her second rope.

Nearnearnear. Silence. No silence. Someone here. Nearnearnear.

Concentrate. Must contact. Silence. No silence. Contact.

CONTACT!

When Phyllida landed in the middle of her Aladdin's cave, she pulled out two cave LEDs, broke the tube and threw them onto the cave floor. Their vivid light quickly spread and was reflected in the hundreds of crystals that virtually exploded in reinforced light, completely illuminating the entire cave.

"So cool," Phyllida murmured, "we won't even need cave lamps down here."

When the archaeologist put down her bag of gear, she noticed a staircase of man-made steps … with symbols on them. As curious as the proverbial cat, she moved to the landing, bowed down and scrutinised the characters. Then she straightened, her eyes shining with a peculiar green light – Old English! The language was Old English. She leaned down again and translated:

"And woe is he who disturbs the realm of the living dead; he shall be cursed and cleansed by fire." _Wowser!_ She straightened and grinned. They meant business in the old days. She wondered very much when this was from. Obviously, the kind of Old English she had just read was spoken in the first century A.D., but it could easily have been added later as the language continued to be used poetically. Phyllida was a little surprised it hadn't been in Latin; inscriptions usually were.

Putting her musings aside, she rubbed her hands in satisfaction got and took out her I-pad. This was way too good to be true. She would make some recordings and a description and take some snapshots.

Phyllida turned on the I-pad, but in her eagerness, accidentally activated her I-tunes, making her all time favourite 80s hit song Footloose fill the cave. She muted it instantly, knowing full well what loud noise might do to a place with stalactite formations. Holding her breath, listening for any tell-tale rumblings, she silently sent a prayer to the almighty God of Archaeology and was apparently heard. No rumbling. The sudden noise had had no effect. Phyllida drew a sigh of relief … and then heard...

_Listen to me carefully_

She jumped, nearly losing the I-pad. Then she froze, a shock of surprise running through her body. She had heard a voice. She was sure of it! Slowly Phyllida put down her I-pad and then straightened, concentrating on listening.

_I said: Listen to me!_

Phyllida jumped again, this time emitting a short scream.

_Please, - stop screaming. Listen to me._

OhMyGod,SomebodyIsHere …. the Ph.D.-student turned and turned in fear and confusion; she knew she heard the voice – more in her mind than in her ear, really, but she had no idea where it came from.

_Please..._

Hyperventilating, Phyllida made herself calm down and sober; the voice had just said 'please'. It was a voice in need, she concluded. Somebody was in need for help. She started walking, still taking care not to step on something valuable, and whispered as loudly as she dared.

"Hello? Somebody there? Are you in need of help?"

_Yes. Please. Take the powder._

"What? What? Where are you?"

The voice really didn't come from any point in particularly, it felt more inside her head. She stopped dead. Oh no. Was she going mad?

_A little further. It is not far!_

Phyllida got a grip and encouraged by the voice took a couple of more steps; her head lamp, following every movement of her head, swung to and fro, only illuminating crystals, it seemed to her. A sound made her turn her head and lamp to the left, yet after a scrutiny, she abandoned that direction, then turned right …

… and screamed, full throat, and stumbled back and tripped over a crystal stalagmite, still screaming.

In front of her, was a very big and tall crystal stalagmite – and inside of it was the corpse of man.

_Please don't scream, please don't scream._

But Phyllida couldn't help herself; after her whopper scream, smaller and less shrill screams escaped her throat; it wasn't until small pieces of crystals started tinkling and rumbling and roll over the cave floor, that Phyllida clamped her mouth shut, forcing herself to silence.  
>For a while there was silence, save the sound of the girl's rapid little huffs and her wildly beating heart. Then the voice spoke to her again.<p>

_I am so sorry, but you really can't scream. Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you._

And that's when it occurred to her: The voice was speaking in Old English – and it came from the dead man inside the crystal.

x

Slowly getting a grip, Phyllida was gradually able to ignore her impulse to scream and she picked herself up off the cave floor and took a little closer look at the crystal sarcophagus. As an archaeologist, she had seen several ancient dead bodies and mummies; that was not what was bothering her this time. This time the blood chilling effect was caused by the fact that this corpse was perfectly preserved … and had its eyes wide open. Her breath quickened again and she stepped back to further control her reactions. Her head was spinning, trying desperately to make some kind of sense of what she saw and heard, and for a moment there, she actually toyed with the idea that this was some humongous setup, candid camera or its likes. She turned her head from side to side to spot the tell-tale cameras sticking out and the appearance of a show host, reaching out a mike with a big grin, telling her that she had been 'had'.

_Please …_

Yet, she decided against it. The lack of verisimilitude of the setup-hypothesis notwithstanding, there just didn't exist any kind of technology that could boost sound like that inside one's mind. She had to trust her own senses. SHE WAS NOT CRAZY!

_Please …_

The eyes were looking directly at her. Phyllida summoned all her courage and approached the crystal, submitting it to a thorough, scientific examination.

The crystal itself was unscathed, its surface completely devoid of scratches or dents. It couldn't be very old, then. Yet, when she pressed her carbon monoxide detector against the surface, the chemical compound appeared to contain large doses of carbon 14 - which indicated that it had existed for several hundred years. Phyllida drew back her hand with a jerk. What the hell was going on?

Next, she examined the corpse itself. It was completely and perfectly preserved. It was the body of a very young man, short black hair, big blue eyes and ears sticking out like you wouldn't believe. His stature was rather thin, lanky and tall and his bone structure pronounced. He was clad in nondescript blue peasant's coat with a brown jacket and a red neckerchief. These clothes could be of any age.

_I am Merlin._

Phyllida jerked back her head again. The lips in front of her hadn't moved an inch and yet she knew that voice came from him. "I am Phyllida," she said out loud, feeling awfully stupid.

_Will you help me break free, Phyllida?_

"Of course," she had stopped feeling stupid, "how did you get in there in the first place?"

_Cannot tell you.._

"We'll save that for a nice whiskey by the fireplace, then," she said, smirking. "Tell me what to do."

_Behind you. Powder._

Phyllida turned gingerly and discovered a bluish powder on top of one of the rocks.

"Yeah? What's that for?"

_I can muster the magic, but the words must be spoken out loud and I cannot do that._

"Magic?" she smirked even wider, gradually returning to her former hypothesis of the whole setup being a part of a candid camera show. Well … she would play along and see how it all ended.

"So where did you get the powder? And how, seeing you're sorta caught by this giant crystal?"

_Concentrating hard. Levitating. Has taken hundreds of years._

"Aha." (As if!)

_Take the powder when I ask you to. Careful, not to spill any of it. When you see my eyes glow, throw it on this crystal and say _**álæte**_. Please, repeat it._

Phyllida repeated it dutifully, having no problem pronouncing it.

_Good_, the voice applauded.

She grinned widely, now completely convinced that she was part of a TV-show.

"Well, you're in luck, matey – I happen to have majored in archaeology, specialised in ancient languages."

_Please, say it again_. Phyllida repeated the word – flawlessly.

_Thank you, I …._

The voice faded as if it was being taken over by emotion. The young archaeologist stopped smirking. That was real emotion she heard there, no doubt about it. What was going on?

_I want you to take the powder now. _

She bent down and carefully scooped up the finely ground powder. Out of curiosity, she scanned it with her components detector which registered various components like sulphur, mercury and lunar caustic. She wrinkled her nose. If she threw that, it would produce smoke. Would she gag in it? Deciding to take the chance (she was sure the TV-channel involved knew what they were doing), she lifted her hand with the powder high over her head, locking eyes with the eerie body in the crystal, waiting for instructions.

_Now, when my eyes glow, say the spell I have taught you, throw the powder on the crystal and stand back_.

She nodded, excited and eager to find out what would happen. And that's when she actually saw his eyes glow.

With the same enthusiasm as an actor, she shouted the spell, threw the powder and jumped back quickly, wide-eyed with exhilaration. She didn't have to wait long.

With a flash and and muted crack and yes, lots of smoke, the crystal split open and the body of the young man fell out and collapsed unceremoniously on the cave floor.

x

Phyllida instantly knew that something was wrong. She didn't waste time, but ran to the fallen figure, grabbing her gear to take out the first aid kit that she was always carrying round when she was doing field work. And this was some field work!

Her first impression, as she touched the 'corpse' for the first time, was intense coldness; it was so icy that she instinctively retracted her hand with a yelp. Then she took out the folded silver foil blanket and unwrapped it, stuffing it round the young man and underneath him. He had began to shiver violently. This was no acting.

"Easy, there. It'll be all right. Just concentrate on breathing."

When he answered her, it was still in her mind. _No. I haven't got very much time. I must go back and set it right._

"You're kidding, right? You're not going anywhere. You need time to recover."

Phyllida took his wrist to check for his pulse and noticed, with some concern, that his flesh was not turning rosy – it was turning ashen grey and quickly too, blue veins beginning to show quite clearly. His glance met hers and she saw that he knew what she was only just realising. The boy was dying.

_Listen! I have no time. It would seem … I can't go back. You must … you must. I have power for only one more spell. You must go back and find me – and convince me to tell Arthur everything._

"Hush, hush – what the hell are you talking about?"

_Ha... hadn't happened if he had had my back ... He must know._

"Know what?" Phyllida asked, gingerly trying to support his head, yet having the distinct impression that if she touched him, he would shatter into pieces.

He was finally able to move something: His eyes. They turned upwards and gazed directly into her auburn ones. _Who and what I am. Go back. Tell me this – all. Have power ... for only one more … spell_.

And then just as she thought he was fading and dying between her hands, his voice suddenly yelled into the cave, making the crystals sing and jiggle with the decibels, and her stomach felt as if it was being sucked through her spine while her vision blurred and the young man disappeared from her view.

xxx

So what happened to poor Merlin? Is he really dying?  
>You want more? Tell me, please! I have no idea if this works or not.<p> 


	3. Burn, Witch, burn!

Thanks for being with me here. :-)

I'm telling you, the few of you who have added this story to their favourite list are the ones keeping me at it, so thank you for reading. I hope the language isn't too awkward for you.

If it is, please drop me a line and I'll try to improve it.

CHAPTER 2

**Burn, Witch, burn!**

When her vision cleared and was focused again, Phyllida noticed that the young man had completely vanished. Not only from her view, but altogether. Completely spooked by the whole experience, the girl slowly picked herself up on unsteady legs and hoisted her gear bag to her shaking shoulder. She looked round her. How very odd. The cave looked so very different all of a sudden. No dirt lying in heaps and no trace of the hole she had dug to enter and certainly no cave light anywhere. It had, in effect, disappeared into thin air. Still, the place was well lit. Light came streaming in through several holes and, of course, mainly through … the entrance. Phyllida gawked; she couldn't believe it. The entrance was intact!

Staggering and with her head buzzing, the archaeologist stepped out of the cave and into the blazing sun. Her visible relief was, however, instantly replaced by an annoyed concern when she realised that she must have come out through another opening. The natural setting was totally different with a lot more trees and bushes, and her camp and car were nowhere to be seen. Phyllida sat down heavily, her legs about to buckle underneath her, took out her water container and downed almost all of the contents.

_What a rush_! She still couldn't make heads or tails of what had just happened, but it had been quite a ride. Now, if only her legs would behave and stop shaking, she would go round the cave and find her camp site. The fog had certainly gone and replaced by an amazingly warm sun.

Phyllida took out the contents of her gear bag and made an inventory. The silver blanket was gone, of course, but everything else was there, including the I-Pad. The only thing to disappear down there, then, was Mer... what was his name again? Merthur? Arthur! No, that was the other person he mentioned. She frowned. Why were those names so familiar?

And that's when it hit her: Geoffrey of Monmouth, the literary monk of the 2nd century England, had actually written a myth including those two names. It went beautifully with the use of Old English too. She quickly turned on her I-Pad and opened her archive on mythical scrolls.

Geoffrey of Monmouth. Librarian monk of the fabled Camelot in which the ambitious King Arthur resided. Camelot was in almost constant war with its neighbouring countries and though King Arthur voiced an ambition of gathering the countries and unite Albion, he never managed to undertake this gargantuan enterprise. Geoffrey of Monmouth vaguely mentions some names of valiant knights and an evil sorceress by the name of Morgana or Morgan le Fey who should, allegedly, have entrapped her nemesis Merlin Emrys.

_**Merlin!**_

Nooo-ooo. That would be too much of a coincidence. It couldn't be! Unless, she had been dealing with some kind of seriously disturbed geek who was a part of a Geoffrey of Monmouth-fan-society. Stranger things had happened. Phyllida quickly ran through the different stories attached to this particular myth, which were few and short. Apparently the prophecies had been vaster than Monmouth's actual records. Oh, well, it was all mythical sagas and as thus not to be taken seriously.

Phyllida put her I-Pad on stand-by with the intention of reading on in the car and proceeded round the site to the other entrance where she knew her car and camp must be. Amazing, how quickly the fog had lifted and how warm it was all of a sudden. With a furrowed brow that bore witness to her still contemplating about the boy with the disappearing act, she made it round the slope and found … absolutely nothing. No main entrance, no path, no Knights Templar stone and certainly nothing to even suggest that a camp or a car had ever existed. ? **Now**, what? Oh, right – her car and camp must have been stolen. Clearly! That was the only explanation. And she could prove it, there were tire tra... no … not really.

For the thousandth time that day, the otherwise bright young scientist was left completely stumped and dazzled. The irony of it didn't escape her. _Well, Phyllida? You wanted an archaeological mystery? You've got it!_

Flabbergasted, confused, agog and aghast, she threw in the towel and headed for the main road. There was no mobile connection this far out in the country, so she would simply have to start walking and hope to god that a car would pass her and pick her up.

It took her about 30 minutes to reach the road, except … it couldn't have been the road, because there was no tarmac. Lots of pebbles and larger stones – but no sigh of tarmac. She must have gone in the wrong direction. Turning back, the archaeologist perused another direction, wondering what the heck had happened to her otherwise quite astute sense of direction. After a while, however, it was clear to her that the first road she had encountered had, indeed, been the only one in the vicinity and she had no choice but to follow it and see where it led her.

She understood nothing: a vanished car and ditto camp site (the entire site!), a completely altered excavation site (where did those trees come from?) and a road that had, all of a sudden, lost its tarmac. This just wasn't her day. Obviously, she must have come out at a completely different place than she got in. Perhaps she would find the car and camp – and the tarmac – further down.

Her musings were interrupted by a rhythmic sound of something resembling thunder which made her turn round. Oh... horses, of course. She carefully stepped aside to let the riders pass and perhaps they could even tell her where the hell she was. As they approached, she secretly grinned at their attire. Blimey! Perhaps there was a medieval fair going on somewhere. Three riders clad in brown and blue garments with neckerchiefs and gloves with incredibly wide cuffs, two of them having sheathed swords tied round their waist. How extraordinary – these players really put their soul into the whole thing.

"Oy," she cried, halting them when they were close enough. "Excuse me. Can you tell me where I am?"

The riders stopped abruptly, their steeds skidding to a sudden halt, and turned, faces full of wonder. One of them turned his head towards the others and then back at her again. What? What it her hair colour? Had they never seen a purple-black-haired girl before? Then one of them opened his mouth and said … something in Old English! Phyllida blinked. _You've got to be kidding me_! Wow, she had heard of seriously committed medieval players, but this was taking it a notch too far. She sighed and repeated her question in Old English – otherwise she would probably never get out of there. The man smiled at her.

"Oh, now I understand you, my boy. You are in the Camelot forest – only about ten miles from Camelot."

Camelot? Oh, please, she thought, they're still holding true to the play. They must have meant Caerleon. Wait … did he just call her a boy? How rude!

"Erm … I am eternally indebted to you, sir," she said, trying to play their game.

The riders nodded with a grin when she said 'sir' and turned to ride off. Ten miles! Oh, boy, but at least she was on the right track. And perhaps she would meet some saner people along the way.

x

She didn't! In fact, she met amazingly few people, and the ones that'd come her way, were the same brand of nutters. This time she had asked them (still in Old English as a good little girl) if they had a mobile phone, but they had just stared at her like **she **was the nutter. **Oh swell**. She would have to walk all the bloody way to Caerleon. Not that she couldn't do it; being an archaeologist, she was in naturally good shape. It was just not the way she had hoped to spend the day.

And the poor boy? She still couldn't believe she had seen what she had seen, or that he had disappeared the way he did. She would, of course, have to tell the police immediately when she got the chance.

Phyllida E. Dewhurst reached Caerleon 2 hours and 30 minutes later, accommodating a painful sunburn, compliments to her pale, sensitive skin and this surprisingly hot sun, and had a shock - again. People like the ones she had met on her way, paraded in and out of the town, which, by the by, slight detail, was dominated by a huge castle from the 1st century.

_This is impossible, _she thought_, there was no castle when I drove through. This place looks nothing like Caerleon. What the hell is going on here?_

Clearly, she been going in the wrong direction – again . She shortly contemplated passing it and move on to the next town (which _**had **_to be Caerleon), but her sore feet advised her against it. Surely, there had to be someone with a mobile in that quirky medieval town down there. Phyllida sighed audibly and proceeded to enter what had to be Camelot. Did they really build all this for the sake of a medieval fair? But that was impossible, even if it did turn out to be masonite and plywood.

Emptying her water bottle for good, she proceeded, confident that everything would be resolved presently.

x

"Who is that?"

Merlin was sitting on the window sill, polishing one of Gaius' brass heaters for lab work. The work was less tedious when one kept oneself entertained by looking out the window, and it was during this pastime that Merlin spotted one lonely-looking and thoroughly confused young boy with an odd shade of black-purplish shoulder long hair and very quaint clothing. Clearly not from Camelot, he thought. The figure was turning and turning, stopping and asking several people questions. They looked at him suspiciously and just shook their heads, leaving the boy bewildered. Merlin's empathy immediately went out to the boy. He remembered how awkward his first time in Camelot had been.

"I don't know," Gaius was joining him and leaning over his shoulder to get a better look, "certainly not from round here."

"That's what I was thinking. Have you ever seen hair of that colour?"

"Looks like it's painted," the court physician murmured.

**Merlin!**

The young sorcerer sighed, and let the brass ware fall into his lap.

_**Merlin! **_This time louder.

"His master's voice," Gaius grinned.

Gaius' grin froze when Merlin shoved the brass into his hands. Arthur was first priority as his old mentor very well knew, which meant that his assistant had to abandoned his polishing. Gaius sighed. Admittedly, Merlin brought his share of money to the household, but he did wish the prince would ease up on him from time to time – and relinquish the young boy into his labour force more often.

Gaius put down the brass ware and looked out the window again. The strange boy was still down there; the physician cocked his head. What a young boy it was too and looking completely forlorn. And by and by, increasingly more fearful.

x

She couldn't believe it! All these people appeared to take their characters so seriously that they all pretended not to understand her need for a mobile phone. Phyllida felt how she was moving into a dangerous fit of hysteria. How long were they going to let her walk round like this? She was thirsty, hungry, tired to the bone and still somewhat shocked by the whole corpse-in-need thing. Not even when she said she needed to report a missing dead person, did anyone help her. Incredible! And the buildings weren't even fake! They were actually made of stone and mortar!

Utterly bewildered and on the verge of tears, the archaeologist felt very much like the 6-year-old little girl who once lost her mother in a shopping centre. In her desperation to find some kind of contact with proper authorities, she took out her I-Pad again, hoping to god that the connection to the Internet was available. At the same moment some idiot collided with her and made her drop the expensive piece of equipment which, of course, fell onto the cobble stones with a sickening crack and instantly activated the I-Tunes. Had the situation not been so vexing, Phyllida would have grinned widely at the 80s' _Footloose _filling the ancient streets like a bad version of an anachronistic joke. As it was, she merely swore over rather than under her breath, scared that the pad might have been damaged.

Picking it up and dusting it down, checking all the functions, she never saw the crowd that had gathered round her as if by magic. She managed to mute the volume and put the pad back into her gear bag and then saw the crowd gawking.

There was absolute silence for several seconds.

Then somebody pointed an accusatory finger at her and screamed _**sorceress!**_.

"What?" Phyllida had just time to say before she was swept away by brutal guards, who ripped her bag off of her and dragged her along, her feet scraping against the cobble stones.

What happened next was a blur for the unfortunate archaeologist. It all went very quickly. The two thugs hauled her sorry arse into the impressive castle (which was not of cardboard!), through several hallways and into a majestic baronial hall where some court members appeared to be assembled. One of then, a tall, ruggedly handsome and leather clad man with burning eyes, asked the guards about the raucous.

"Your Majesty," the guard left to her replied, "this boy was caught using magic!"

Of all the confusing and overwhelming things that was happening and was said, Phyllida focused on only one statement.

"I am not a boy!" she cried, annoyed.

"SILENCE!" the other guard roared and smacked Phyllida in the face that whip lashed backwards and to the side.

Now, she was scared. Really scared. This was not a setup! This was not a TV-show! The searing pain in her jaw told her that. This was a bunch of seriously and dangerously disturbed and deranged individuals who all believed themselves to be living in the 1st century. The authorities would have to be told of this – but first she had to escape.

The tall man in the leather outfit was now standing in front of her, grabbing her already sore chin and lifted up her face.

"Boy, eh?" he said, his voice low and intense – and uncannily calm. "I don't think so. This is a young girl."

She didn't offer him a saucy comeback. He looked awfully strong.

"Out with it," he demanded, "did you use sorcery?"

By now, Phyllida was too petrified to answer; her eyes bulging, all she could do was really pant and huff with shock.

"ANSWER ME!" he yelled. The volume had the desired effect. Faster than she would have thought possible herself, she told him: "Ofcoursenot. Iwouldn'tknowhow."

The man that appeared to be the king scoffed. "Hmphff – are there any witnesses?"

"Plenty, Sire," the guard pointed out and then reached out Phyllida's bag, "and evidence."

Phyllida whimpered when she saw the King reach down and extract her I-Pad. This was not good. The pad hadn't been turned off and this nutcase would, beyond doubt, see it as an item of devilish origin. She could smell the pyre already.

The archaeologist's predictions turned out correct. King Uther fingered the object that immediately was came to life from its stand-by state (for once, it was seriously inconvenient that Apple's products were so reliable) and the mere light of the monitor made Uther drop it onto the floor with a hiss that was followed by his agitated tap dance on the offending object. Phyllida whined even more. Oh, boy – was that going to hurt her finances. It had taken her the best part of a year to save for that thing. No to mention all her recordings and findings that would now be lost.

Once the object had stilled and become depressingly dead, the tall demonic king turned to the small, shivering woman and handed out his verdict.

"You are hereby found guilty of wielding magic, and by the decree of Camelot that all magic and sorcery is banned under the pain of death, I condemn you to burn on the pyre. The verdict will be executed as quickly as possible to rid us from this dangerous threat."

This woke up the dying embers in Phyllida's heart.

"What, what, what … whattayamean? What do you mean _**pyre**_? Are you stark raving mad?" Yes, you are, aren't you?"

The guards didn't bother to slab her this time, but proceeded simply to drag her away and out of the great hall, while she was still making her opinion heard.

"Are you actually going to burn me? You realise that constitutes _**murder**_, don't you? Does that fact even **compute **in that mush you have for brain? I warn you, when the authorities find the remains of my body, they will ask questions and eventually find this more than illegal society you have here. YOU ARE MAD AS A HATTER!"

That was about the last that Uther heard of this extraordinary girl, who seemed to be zestier the more trouble she was in.

x

Dusk had set in and veiled the town in beautiful dark blue colour when Merlin finally stumbled through the door to Gaius' quarters. Endless chores had kept him with Arthur most of the day and made sure his entire lanky form was bent with sore muscles and aching joints. _I'll become Old Merlin before my time if he keeps this up_, the young (!) warlock thought. Gaius was still out on his rounds, and the place was silent, but for some construction work going on outside. The characteristic clangs and bangs were mixed with the intense humming of an agitated crowd and the manservant leaned out of the window to see what the fuss was about.

Outside, a considerable crowd had already gathered in the town square in front of the castle to witness the building of a … pyre! Merlin gasped and drew back his head, his young features etched with concern. Oh, no. Not another one. When would the king stop burning random people that he, for some reason, thought were sorcerers? He sighed and wondered who it would be this time. _My dear god, let it not be a child._

The sound of a door whining on its hinges made the young boy turn round and flash his mentor a tired welcoming smile that, however, quickly subsided.

"They're about to burn someone again. Do you know who it is this time?"

"Yes," Gaius said softly, "I was just down in the dungeons watching the poor girl being 'questioned'."

"Girl? Someone we know?"

"It was the gi... boy we noticed this morning – the bewildered one who kept turning and turning. The one with the odd black hair colour, remember?"

"Really?" Merlin gawked at Gaius, "that was a _girl_?"

"Yeees," the old court physician mused, "I wonder very much if her shoulder short hair is a result of her previously being shaved for being a witch. If so, she'd really gone from the ashes into the fire by coming here."

"Maybe she's not right in the head?"

Gaius cocked an eyebrow. "There might be something in that. She certainly talked gibberish for a while, there. Right up until..."

"Until what?"

Gaius leaned over and looked Merlin in the eye and his words came with emphasis, perhaps as a means to remind the young warlock what he would be risking if ever his magic was found out.

"Until the very end of my visit when she appeared to understand what she was facing. She said, quite lucidly: "My god – they're really going to burn me dead, aren't they?"."

Merlin said nothing for a while, the young boy being even paler than usual. "What had they done to her?"

"The usual: Broken her ribs, punched out a couple of molars, whipped her and thrust iron hot metal splinters underneath her nails."

His apprentice shivered.

"Yes, Merlin," Gaius said in a low voice, "that could happen to you."

Merlin shook his head vehemently, "I wouldn't let them. This actually proves that she's not a sorceress."

Gaius nodded. "Doesn't it always. But the King usually finds some way of explaining away the prisoner's lack of power to escape."

"We can't let them kill her," Merlin cried, upset.

"You can't save her, Merlin," his faithful friend emphasised, "you can't risk it. If you're caught, you'll burn yourself for sure. Besides, they're taking her in a just a few minutes. Uther is afraid she might have some friends that will break her free."

"For once he's right!" Merlin said, clenching his teeth and left the room in three steps. Gaius trotted after him as quickly as the old legs could carry him, crying for him to stop – in vain.

x

Phyllida E. Dewhurst had never found a damp, cold corner of hard stone so comforting. In this corner, the archaeologist found a safe haven of random thoughts that, thankfully, had nothing to do with her current situation. In this corner, she imagined how she finally made up with his sister, how she managed to find the perfect Christmas gift for her dear old father (warm socks, of course – and they would be grey, his favourite colour), how she finished her thesis on the Knights Templar of Wales and their exodus to the Holy Land – she would show Tom Beauchamps, the arrogant bastard, who thought he had the key to their whereabouts in the 13th century.

A metallic sound to her left disturbed her concentration and line of thought, making her wince in agony and briefly reminded of the things she should **not **think. Like the fact that she had just been beaten to a pulp in the most brutal way, that her ribs felt like they were floating round freely, that her very young life was soon about to end in the most painful way known to man... All that she would not think about.

But then the metallic sound was repeated, and big, aggressive men rushed in and ripped her out of her vegetative state, mercilessly forcing her to face her doom. _This can't be happening! This must be a joke (some joke!). Or I'm dreaming. Yes, that's it. A nightmare!_

Two well armoured guards hoisted her up, each of them taking an arm, and hauled her sorry arse down the dungeon corridor. She screamed loudly from the pain of having her shattered ribs torn further apart and felt how the blood from her broken molars started trickling down her jaw again. She rather felt than saw a young boy that seemed vaguely familiar standing beside an old man with white, wavy hair of shoulder length, both of them standing in an entrance and watching her being dragged to her death. Then came a sudden and eye piercing light from the door that was opened. It hurt at first, but when her eyes gradually adapted to the sharp light, what she saw in the square hurt more: the pyre. Waiting for her.

The old physician and his assistant followed the guards and their prey into the streets where the crowd was waiting for their pound of flesh. Mothers were lined up, talking to their babies, telling them that this would happen if they didn't behave; men had brought their sons to the spectacle that it may harden them and make them grow up and others were there simply to enjoy the sight of a body writhing in pain, either envisioning the victim to be their much hated boss or mother-in-law or simply focusing on a perverse feeling of arousal.

Merlin hissed into the old man's ear: "We must **do **something!"

"No, Merlin," Gaius hissed back, "There is nothing we can do. She's not the first to lose her life to Uther's persecution of magic and she won't be the last. You can't rescue them all!"

The guards and their victim had reached the pyre and were now climbing the platform. To the right was the executioner with the flaming torch and the dungeon physician, who would testify to the prisoner's death once she had been burned. Not that there would be much to examine, yet rules were rules.

Phyllida had never felt so tired in her entire life. It took all the remains of her energy to lift her head and look at the crowd assembled to watch the last minutes of her life. Her bloodshot eyes scoured the people and saw hatred, empathy, fear, indifference, lust, joy and shock and sadness. The last two expressions belonged to the two people she had passed in the dungeon corridor, the young boy and the old timer. She absent-mindedly wondered if those two would be the last that she …. and then she recognised him.

Phyllida blinked her stinging eyes; it couldn't be! But it was! It was! She was certain of it – down there, next to the old timer, stood the young boy she had hauled out of the crystal cave. _How is that possible_? He was dying the last time she saw him. His heart was ceasing to beat and a blood poisoning and necrosis was rapidly spreading through his body. Yet, there he was. Fit as a fiddle! HOW WAS THAT POSSIBLE?

Then her vision became blurred; _**no, no!**_ She irascibly blinked to clear her eyes. Except her eyes weren't the problem – her vision was blurred because they had lit the pyre and smoke was getting in her eyes. _**No, no, no**_. Desperately, her mind wheeling, she roamed her brain to remember what had started all this in the first place. And that's when it came to her. _You must go back and find me – and convince me to tell Arthur everything._

That's what he had said. That was her mission. And here he was, the young boy. What was his name again? Merlin? Merlin Ambrose? Emrys? Phyllida coughed, the smoke getting into her lungs. Oh, god – she had to tell him before she lost her ability to speak.  
>Somehow, she found the strength to bow her head and turn it where the air still was relatively smoke free; she inhaled deeply and gratefully and then turned her head, trying to pin the boy with her eyes, and yelling:<p>

**EMRYS … EMRYS. I HAVE A MESSAGE FROM EMRYS TO EMRYS!**

And then she broke down coughing, unable to speak any more. Choking in the deadly smoke particles, she never saw how the one she called Emrys stiffened and opened his mouth in utter surprise.

"Merlin, did you hear that?" Gaius whispered intently in the young man's ear.

"Yes," was Merlin's only answer. He was looking at the poor girl who was now enwrapped in flames to the extent that you could hardly see her any more.

And suddenly he knew how to save her. Merlin concentrated and whispered:

_**Áspréadap ádas**_

With a roar, the flames were extended to cover up the entire pyre and Merlin then followed it up by murmuring another spell: _**ábregdan frówan æt cote Merlin**_. Gaius looked at him askance, pride and surprise in his eyes.

"I didn't know you knew that one," he whispered, his voice impressed, "that's very advanced magic, Merlin."

"Neither did I," Merlin admitted, "it just came to me."

"You saving her must be destiny, then," the physician murmured and turned to leave in haste. Merlin was already ahead of him, shoving his way through the crowd.

xxx

So what happened to our poor heroine? Will she ever manage to convey Merlin's message to himself? And will the message make Merlin finally tell Arthur about his powers?

Well, perhaps I'll tell you in the next chapter. ;)


	4. From Black Purple to Foxy Red

Hi! If you're reading this, it's probably because you have decided to give my story a chance. THANK YOU! Would you also – please – leave me a note and tell me your honest opinion of it?

Thank you in advance. :)

CHAPTER 3

**From black purple to foxy red**

He found her exactly where he had intended to drop her: in his own cot. Reaching her in three long strides, he immediately checked her breath. Gone! Merlin felt how his own was about to leave him as well and shot out his hand to let it hover over her mouth and whispered _**lungenna áblæwap.**_ He felt his hand sizzle and power surged from his mind, through his hand and downwards onto her lungs that gave way with rapid little huffs, her pulmonary system fighting to get into rhythm again. Merlin proceeded to draw out the poisonous smoke in her lungs and put another hand on her chest to stabilise the breathing. Once he was certain that she had been brought back to life, he started looking at her more closely, and what he saw was frightening: If the young girl had been copper red already (possibly from the sun), it was nothing compared to the burning red hue of her now. Blisters on her face, chest, upper arms and neck looked ready to burst and the angry hue was of a fiercer colour than his neckerchief. Merlin gasped, wondering if he really could heal this.

"Salt water and _lady's bedstraw_!" came a voice from the door frame. Merlin whipped round to see his old mentor. "_Lady's bedstraw_ is illegal," Merlin pointed out.

"Illegal be damned," Gaius exclaimed, "we can't leave her like this."

The two of them nodded at each other, in perfect accord. Merlin got the salt water and Gaius the plant that he prepared with a short spell. One hour later, the solution was ready. Merlin had been placing cloths soaked in distilled water on her blisters all the while he had been speaking soothingly to her. He didn't know if she was able to hear him; she hadn't opened her eyes yet, but he knew it was important to the healing process to set the mind at peace.

Gaius moved to his left and replaced the distilled water with the salt water and lady's bedstraw and his apprentice started soaking the cloths in the new solution. Already after the first batch of bedstraw cloths, the skin started losing some of their tomato red hue. "Amazing," Merlin murmured; Gaius nodded, "yes, lady's bedstraw, once magically prepared, really is quite miraculous. Such a shame that Uther won't let us use it."

After the second batch, the blisters had subsided to a non-dangerous state and the girl would be able to open her eyes and use her mouth. Merlin started to dab the places that were particularly scorched and she opened her eyes just as he reached her neck. Merlin jerked back at the sight of her auburn eyes that first stared into the air and then sidetracked to seek out his face. Then he returned to the dabbing, reassuring her:

"It's all right. You'll be safe here, and you're healing fast."

She opened her mouth and croaked, starting to cough a little which made her face convulse in pain. Merlin put a soothing hand on her chest again and sent out a mute calming spell that helped instantly. Phyllida was slowly becoming conscious, feeling a warm, calm hand on her chest that seemed to clean her lungs. A healer? She blinked her eyes. How did she end up here again?

"Where … am I?" she huffed.

Merlin felt a little surprised at the sound of her voice. It sounded a lot more mature than he would have thought. When it had screamed out on top of the pyre, it had sounded young and afraid.

"You're in our home," Gaius assured her, "do not worry. No one will find you here."

Her eyes wandered uneasily from the young man to the old and then she recognised them both. They had been in the dungeons! They had been in the square! She had addressed the young one that she had recognised as Merlin Emrys (no point in addressing that particular issue now, she quickly decided – maybe he would stop helping her once she had blurted out the message?).

"How … did I get here?"

Merlin and Gaius looked at each other. At a loss for words, Merlin left it to his friend to do the honours. "Merlin … stole you away from the pyre once you were unconscious," he attempted. They both saw a flash of intense distrust in the girl's eyes, more than proving that her mind had fully recovered and wasn't fooled that easily. "What? He's made of asbestos?" she suggested in searing sarcasm. Their eyes and faces conveyed puzzlement. _They don't know what asbestos is?_

"Never mind," she added, "I am grateful … have you called the Police?"

If at all possible, the two of them looked even more bewildered.

"Polees?" Gaius asked. Phyllida's eyes widened. _Oh, no_. They were keeping it up even now.

Not having the energy to berate them or knock it into their thick skulls that now was not the time to play medieval, the archaeologist sighed and closed her eyes. She had never been more deadly tired and exhausted in her life. The mysteriously vanishing camp, the attempt on her life, the rescue … From one second to the other, the young girl fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

x

When Arthur turned in later that night, it was an uncharacteristically taciturn manservant that met him in his chambers. The prince watched the young lanky man as he pulled the curtains and methodically prepared the washing bowl for his master's toilette. There was no smile on his lips, no attempt to sound chipper, no insults thrown at his royal master. The entire countenance spoke of one preoccupied by something else that his chores. The prince sighed audibly.

"Okay, Merlin – out with it. What's wrong?"

Merlin jumped, having been deeply engrossed in his thoughts. "What? Nothing."

Arthur smirked, "Puuu-lease. It is so obvious. When you're actually getting things right and not bouncing round clumsily, that's when you're brooding over something. Come now – tell me."

Merlin shook his head, "it's just … that pyre today."

Arthur's face fell, "that was indeed a mystery. I have seen many pyres in my lifetime; in fact, more than I care to remember, but I have never seen a body become so consumed by flames. There was nothing left for the physician to examine."

"Do you think she escaped?" Merlin suggested carefully. Arthur shook his head.

"No way. There was no escape. But the flames did lick up rather violently at some point. I wonder if that was some ..."

"Yes?"

"Well, I don't know, Merlin. Some spell of hers, perhaps … to ensure a fast death."

Merlin shivered. "Could be," he said in a low voice. "It wasn't pretty," the prince granted him, his face drawn.

Feigning, thus, an appalled reaction to the whole witch-burned-to-a-crisp-thing, enabled Merlin to leave the prince earlier than usual and check up on Gaius' and his unusual guest. Gaius was working in the lab and nodded when Merlin opened the door. The relaxed face of the physician made him emit a sigh of relief. Apparently, the young girl was still alive. The young sorcerer quickly threw down the prince's laundry and went to his room to see if she had awoken.

She was still lying in his cot; Gaius had wrapped something about her ribcage that would help heal her broken ribs just as he had treated all her other cuts and bruises that she had had when being 'debriefed'. The salt water and lady's bedstraw had quickly done away her blisters and sunburn and it was now a very differently looking girl that was peacefully sleeping in front of him. The only feature that looked pretty much like itself was her abnormally coloured hair of purplish black. In fact, he remembered that this was the first feature that had drawn his attention to her. And this gave him an idea.

Merlin went to her side and leaning down, he took a lock of her hair in his hand and scrutinised it thoroughly, using a little golden eye flash insight. Shortly, the hair glowed with a peculiar shine. Gaius had been right! The hair was painted. Merlin shut his eyes and placing a flat hand over her forehead, murmured: _**ábýwap**_.

Instantly her shoulder long wavy hair glowed and the dark dye seemed to dissolve into a million little particles that Merlin waved away. The warlock smiled at the result. The girl had carrot red hair that complemented her fair skin and freckled face much better. Then he jerked as he heard her emit a hiss and her eyes were opened rather suddenly.

"Hush," he hastened to assure her, "you're safe! It's all right."

She blinked at him, "Is the Police here?" she asked hoarsely.

Merlin handed her a cup of water that she gulped thirstily and shook his head, "I don't know what you mean by 'police'."

"The authorities," she explained. Merlin split open in a grin. "No, no. You need not worry."

Then all of a sudden, the frail woman in front of him turned into a fierce beast that grabbed his collar and drew him so close that he felt her breath on his nose.

"You fool," she hissed, "I **want **them here!"

"But they would _kill _you," he said as calmly as he could, though it felt very much like she was about to beat the living daylight out of him.

"No, no – I mean the **real **authorities – the authorities of Wales!"

"What is Wales?" the voice belonged to Gaius, who had heard them talk. The girl turned her head to the old man, pinning him with watering eyes that finally understood that those two could not help her. Her expression was so full of sorrow and despair that it made Gaius sit down by her on the cot and taking her hand to pat it, kindly asked her what her name was.

"Phyllida," she whispered, tears now making it down her cheeks. "Phyllida E. Dewhurst."

They both seemed startled at her name. Then Gaius smiled as grandfatherly as he could. "Hello, Phyllida E. Dewhorse. I am Gaius and this is Merlin. We have been healing you."

"Dewhurst," she amended him and then added, "just call me Phyllida."  
>She sniffed and sat up, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand and then freezing. Her skin felt completely normal. Not only had the wicked sunburn disappeared – so had the blisters she had felt forming under the intense heat of the pyre. Had that been something she had imagined? Or had they healed? "How long have I been out?"<p>

"Several hours," Merlin said. "That's impossible," she insisted, "my skin cannot have healed in such a short time."

"Salt water," Gaius said, hopping that she would accept this simple explanation. She didn't.

"Bullshit!" she said distinctly, "salt water or not, it takes blisters about ten days to truly disappear, depending on the severity of the case. And mine were severe!"

"Not when you use the solution we applied to you," Merlin smiled at her, trying to ease her mind. She scowled him. "Don't patronise me – tell me what's happened."

Merlin and Gaius exchanged a glance and Gaius turned to leave the room. The time to ask her about her enigmatic outcry and to explain who he was had come.

x

"Phyllida," Merlin began, "you were taken to the pyre because Camelot is ruled by a king who is very much afraid of sorcery." He saw her close her eyes in pain at the recollection. "I-am-not-a-witch," she said, accentuating each word.

"But somehow they thought you were and they acted on it. Sorcerers must be careful in this country and stay hidden."

"I am not..."

Merlin stopped her by pressing two fingers to her lips. "I understand," he said, smirking, "but, you see – I am."

Merlin didn't know how she would react, but he hadn't expected this:

She smirked. "Oh, please," she said, her tone of voice conveying the deepest disbelief.

He smiled widely at her. "No, but I am. That's how you healed so quickly. We applied magic."

Phyllida was still smirking, obviously not believing a word he was saying. Merlin sighed inwardly. Here was another one who wouldn't believe that a mere serving boy could, indeed, be harbouring such powers. But the, what about the message she announced? Merlin drew out his right hand, extending it. He hardly moved his lips, but stared intently on the palm of his hand and …

… a flame suddenly flashed and flickered between his fingers.

Phyllida jerked back in shock and pressed herself against the wall, staring at the flame in pure terror. Surprised at first, Merlin swore when he realised the reason for her violent reaction. How could he forget that?

"I'm sorry – sorry. I forgot about your recent trial." He quickly closed his hand and quelled the flame, yet still it took the girl several minutes to calm down and relax her body. She was panting. Instead, Merlin whispered into both his hands and when he reached them out, there was a flower in them. Then before her very eyes, the flower started floating through the air, dangling in front of her. Tentatively she stuck out her hand, waving it both over, under and beside the flower. Once she had satisfied herself that the flower was, indeed, floating freely without the use of string or its like, she let out a hiss of abated breath and turned to look at Merlin.

"Oh, my god," she whispered.

"But you must have known this," the young warlock said softly, "you called my sorcerer name from the pyre."

"You sorcerer name?" she said, her voice full of questions. "Yes," he said, "my birth name is Merlin, but I am known as Emrys within sorcery circles."

"_The Immortal One_," she murmured.

"I'm sorry?"

Phyllida looked at him. He didn't know? Of course, not. The name derived from Greek – why would he know Greek? He sat there on the edge of the cot, looking so incredibly young and vulnerable. Yet this was the boy whom she had seen in the crystal cave wither and die, the boy who had somehow saved her from the pyre and the boy who had just performed breath taking REAL magic right in front of her eyes. Magic that could not be denied. Slowly, as this was making less and less – or perhaps more and more – sense to Phyllida, from the event in the cave to the horror in the square, the various enigmatic elements of it all began to come together in a workable explanation. Of where she was, of where she had been, of WHEN she was … And this boy might just believe her theory.

As if reading her mind, Merlin took her hand and urgently asked her: "Who _**are **_you, Phyllida, and how did you get here? And what is the message you were talking about?"

She accepted and clasped his hands and sighed deeply. Then she asked him not to interrupt her while she was talking and proceeded to tell him every detail from the cave.

Merlin blinked placidly while this strange girl was narrating the events taking place in the crystal cave. He didn't understand half of it, but essentially it would seem that a Merlin double had been caught in a crystal somehow and just broke free recently, asking this girl to look him up; yet none of it really made sense. Particularly not the ending in which the surroundings had changed entirely. However, Phyllida's eyes looked more devoid of puzzlement than he had seen ever since the first time he saw her in the street, which meant that she obviously understood some of it.

The girl had sipped another cup of water and ended her story by saying: "Listen to me. I think I have figured out what has happened here. To my scientific mind it is outlandish and completely wrong and improbable. Yet when all other explanations have been considered and dismissed, what is left, however improbable, must be the truth." She put down the cup and leaned forward.

"This is what I believe happened: At some point in your future, you find this crystal cave and are somehow caught in the crystal. Apparently you stay there for quite some time, because when I dropped by, it had been over a thousand years since you were encapsulated there (Merlin started at this). Somehow, with your mind only, you had managed to gather the correct components for a magical compound that could free you from the crystal; however, free of the preserving effect of the crystal, you quickly withered and caught up with all the years you had been entrapped and you knew you were going to die shortly. You had strength in you for one last powerful spell and thus sent me back to your past with a warning that would keep you from the crystal cave."

She stopped, drank some more water and looked at her captive audience. Merlin was looking down in front of him, clearly contemplating her words carefully. When he finally spoke, his speech was slow. "I believe you are right in by far the most of your theory – except the one about the message."

"Yeah? How?"

He looked up and his dark blue eyes met her auburn ones. "The message was: _tell Arthur everything. _I don't believe that meant that I should stay away from the crystal cave, which I already have visited, by the way. I believe it meant something different entirely."

"What, then?"

"That I should do the one thing that I cannot."

x

Phyllida had no idea how hungry she had been. Insisting that it was time that she got out of bed and surprised when her legs buckled under her and she fell to the floor unceremoniously like a rag doll, she eventually managed to make it to the dinner table and sit down with her young host for soup and bread. She longed for a bath, still smelling slightly and sickeningly like roasted chicken, but her aggressively hungry belly won the immediate battle. The bath would have to come later.

Merlin watched her eat with a smile on his face as she wolfed down the soup like a blacksmith after a long, arduous day. Gaius had gone to sleep, snoring pleasantly in the corner, and the two of them were sitting in semi darkness, talking with hushed voices.

"You know, even if you have been to the cave already, clearly you return to it at some point," Phyllida pointed out between slurps.

"I don't think so," Merlin said firmly.

"Why not?"

"Because … when I was there, I saw the future in the crystals. They led me to act prematurely and it ended in calamity. I will never go back, it can only lead to disaster."

"Obviously," the girl said dryly, "nevertheless – my experience with you in the cave indicates that you do – for whatever reason. And you have to address that fact somehow and take your precautions."

Merlin didn't answer, silently thinking that she was wrong. Instead he asked her:

"Why did the king's men think you were a sorceress?"

"I carried an iPa ... item from the future. It is a mechanical thing, but rather advanced for your time and period. It played a tune and everyone thought it was magic – I guarantee you, though, it was not."

"I believe you. Why did you take that chance?"

Phyllida took time to swallow a particularly big bite of bread. "I had no idea where I was; in my mind, this was still year 2012 and all the people were nutters from a medieval fair."

"Medieval fair?"

"Don't ask."

"Right. Tell me, though, how come you can understand us and speak our language, even with that interesting accent of yours."

"I'm an _archaeologist_. That word doesn't exist yet, but it means somebody interested in old times. I have learned the languages of old times to be able to read the contemporary chronicles."

Merlin nodded. That explained her odd accent. She would have no way of knowing the correct pronunciation.

"I am terribly sorry that your first run-in with our time should be so traumatic," he said gently. She swallowed the soup she had in her mouth and nodded. "I now know how all the witches of the past – my past – must have felt when tried and burned. It is truly a horrible way to go." The young girl trembled and Merlin reached out to tug the blanket she was wearing more tightly round her.

"What is this one thing you cannot do?" she asked, trying to sound normal.

Merlin gave her a sad little smile.

"As you have seen, sorcery is somewhat frowned upon here. So I have to stay in the shadow. But I would still like to protect my prince. I firmly believe that he can bring about Albion and unite this island. So I stay, doing the best I can to keep him from harm, using a little magic now and then to the extent that is necessary. But I have to be careful – _**so **_careful. If I am caught, I will end on the pyre just like you."

"But if you can get _me _out, I bet you can get _yourself _out too."

The young sorcerer nodded, "Been there, done that already – in another body," he added, explaining, as he saw the mute question in her eyes, "however, if that happens, I will have to stay away from Prince Arthur. And then, who will protect him?"

Phyllida nodded, recognising the problem. "And he is like his paranoid father, then? Likely to throw you in the flames himself if you tell him the truth?"

Merlin looked down, suddenly finding his feet infinitely fascinating. "I'm not sure," he finally opinioned, "I supposed it can go both ways."

The now naturally red-headed girl watched the young man closely. There was something else going on. Merlin didn't just fear the pyre or the banishment.

x

It wasn't until the next morning that Phyllida actually noticed that something had happened to her hair. Standing in front of a mirror and about to comb what she still believed to be black hair, she started at the sight that peered back at her. Her hair was back to the carrot fox-red colour it had been born with and which, in her opinion, made her look like a washed out cleaning rag. She gasped audibly and Merlin turned at the sound.

"Ah! Yes, I removed the paint you had applied to your hair."

She turned to look at him with inquisitive eyes. "Why? … And …. how?"

The young sorcerer shrugged. "The purple-black colour was rather prominent. Like this and with your now healed and fair skin, no one will recognise you. And I did it with magic, of course."

Phyllida nodded. It made sense. She would just have to put up with this colour until she could make it back to her own century …. which reminded her:

"Merlin, I'm almost afraid to ask," she began with a little trepidation.

The young boy lit up in a genuine smile that split his face from ear to ear.

"Don't be. You can ask me anything."

"Now that you have got the message … can you bring me back to my own time?"

Merlin bit his lip. "I have absolutely no idea," he admitted. He winced when he saw the girl's shoulders fall. Not the answer she had hoped for, obviously.

Later that morning, Merlin had chores to do, but before Gaius left for his rounds, Phyllida recounted everything she and Merlin had discussed the previous night – including the time issue. The old physician sat pondering for a while, eyeing the young archaeologist with something resembling sympathy and then rose to fetch a book from his vast collection.

"I might have read something to that end," he mumbled, taking out a particularly large copy of _Magica diversa ex ed in tempus_. Phyllida's eyes widened. Archaeologists had been looking for this fabled book for ages, and here it was – right under her nose. It made her wonder what else Gaius had on his shelves.

The book landed on the table, dust and crumbs fleeing for their life and both Gaius and Phyllida bent over it hungrily. The old mentor eyed the young woman out of the corner of his eye. Extraordinary! Phyllida appeared to be as fascinated with science and books as he did.

"I think I can leave this with you as I take care of my rounds," Gaius said, "look for anything temporal, mark the pages and we will go through it when I come back. Stick to Merlin's room – and open for no one!"

"You don't have to tell me that," Phyllida said, cocking an eyebrow.

"When you feel better, we will concoct an alias for you – perhaps you could be Merlin's cousin or something. And we will find some new clothes for you. With that hair colour, your healed hue and a dress, no one will ever recognise the wretched witch that was burned on the pyre."

Phyllida nodded, tensing as usual when the unpleasant witch-experience came up.

x

Merlin was deeply embedded in thought as he walked down the cold stone hallways. Though Spring had come early, the mornings were still chilly to the bone and the light came late. The stones that the castle were made of tended to hold on the night's coldness longer than the simple hut made of wood, which made it somewhat of a trial to rise early and wager into the long corridors.

In addition, this morning was still and deserted and nothing and no one peered round the corners to disturb the young manservant's contemplation. Until he reached the north north-east junction when he saw the flash of a purple dress disappear into a niche and heard the silent sound of a heavy oak door opening and closing. Morgana! He was certain of it. Looking down on the tiled floor, he discovered traces of soiled footprints – of a very small foot. He frowned; obviously the lady had been out on a nightly excursion again. On more than one occasion he had seen her go out, but ever since the serket experience, he had been very careful not to let himself be caught unaware again. Merlin rubbed his neck where the serket had stung him. It still pained him at night, sometimes. Despite his magic, he really hadn't been able to do much. If ever he had to follow her through the night again, it would not be alone. He had learned that much.

Tiptoeing to the best of his ability, he reached her door and put an ear to the heavy oak in the hope of catching something of importance. The oak felt warmer than the stone frame he was leaning against, it should carry the sound more clearly than a wall. Yet the only thing he could make out was muted sounds that indicated that she was undressing.

His prominent ears red as tomatoes, Merlin quickly withdrew and proceeded on his walk to the prince's chambers. Finding out what Morgana was up to would have to wait.

xxx

So will Merlin stalk Morgana and end up in the crystal cave again? Will he be alone?

Will Phyllida ever come home to her own time?

You might find out in the next chapter. ;)


	5. Telling Arthur?

**Disclaimers**: Nothings' mine, except Phyllida.

CHAPTER 5

**Telling Arthur?**

_1_

_- Arthur, I have something to tell you._

_- All right – spit it out then._

_- Arthur, I have magic._

_- GUARDS!_

_2_

_- Arthur, can I talk to you?_

_- What is it?_

_- It's rather … embarrassing._

_- Go on, then. Tell me!_

_- Promise not to kill me?_

_- Why would I kill you? What have you done?_

_- Promise?_

_- No._

…

_3_

_- Arthur, can I ask you something?_

_- What is it?_

_- Suppose you found out that a very good friend of yours happened to have magic. What would you do?_

_- Take him to my father._

_- Oh, is that the time? Gosh, I need to muck out the stables..._

Merlin couldn't count the times he had run through all sorts of scenarios of telling Arthur about his magic; and they all ended badly.

The young sorcerer was polishing his master's boots while the prince was off to train. For once, he hadn't asked his manservant to come with him, so this time Merlin wouldn't return home with a battered back and black and blue arms. Still, the injuries he usually suffered during such practice wouldn't compare to what Uther and perhaps also Arthur would do to him if they knew he had magic. Dungeons and torture, followed by the pyre were a distinct possibility. Merlin sighed. The issue was not as simple as Phyllida – or his future self, apparently, would like to believe. Yet, according to the girl's story, _**not**_ telling Arthur would one day, in the future, cost him his life. Why was that? Why was it so important that the prince know about his powers? He had always thought that the blissful ignorance of Arthur would be what protected him. What would happen to change that hypothesis?

Merlin put down the boots and gazed out the window, trying on another scenario in his thoughts:

_- Arthur, do you know who have been saving your royal backside all these times? Have you ever wondered why you lead such a charmed life?_

_- I'm an excellent warrior?_

_- No, you dollophead – because I have been there fore you – each and every time rescued your bottom by using magic. Did you... Arthur? Arthur! Stop laughing, Arthur!_

Merlin sighed even more deeply this time.

No, it certainly wasn't simple.

x

When Merlin returned to Gaius' quarters that day, he found Phyllida buried in a book that Gaius had lent her. As he had instructed, she was in his room and hadn't opened the door for anyone. Round her lay numerous sheets of paper with endless notes and references – and cups of water. She noticed his glance.

"Can't seem to stop drinking water," she murmured and bottomed up another cup. Merlin didn't blame her; somehow it seemed like a natural reaction to being roasted alive.

"Has Gaius talked to you about an alias?"

She nodded, "he thought it would be enough to introduce me as your distant cousin – and don a dress."

"Yes, I agree – so I dug up this for you." The young boy presented the dress with a flourish. He had nicked it from one of the serving girls, not making the same mistake he had with Morgana's dress and Freya. Phyllida eyed it critically. "Hmmm – okay, I suppose. 'Ere – let me see it."

He handed her the forest green dress, which she turned in her hands, carefully examining it when she suddenly grabbed a knife that lay on the table and started slicing it up.

"What are you **doing**?" Merlin said in horror.

"Taking out the corset. There is **no **way I'm wearing that."

"But … but … all the other girls..."

"I bet they do," she interrupted him, "and that's why their skin is so sallow A corset will push your ribs into the liver and give you jaundice!"

"It... it will?"

"Not to mention the fact that my broken ribs have only just mended … there. Perfect!"

She held up the dress that looked like itself, except without the stiff bodice. "Right," she said, "can you help me put it on?"

She was fumbling the hooks when it occurred to her that she was getting no answer, so she looked up to find a very red eared young man, who was looking anywhere than at her. _Oh, dear me_, she thought, _it's another time and era, Phyllida_, she berated herself.

"Tell you what," she said kindly, "you turn round, I put it one and when I say **when**, you turn to do my back. Deal?"

Merlin nodded gratefully and sheepishly. That, he could do.

The both of them were deeply engrossed in hooking up the now flaccid bodice when they suddenly sensed that someone was watching them and consequently looked up.

It was Arthur. With a smug grin.

"Well, well, Merlin. I couldn't quite understand why you didn't return, but now everything becomes clear. Are you going to introduce me to this pretty girl whose dress you are fingering? Or do I have to draw my own conclusions?"

If the young warlock was blushing before, he was positively red as a tomato now. Phyllida, on the other hand, smiled widely and stuck out her hand.

"Phyllida. Merlin's cousin. Pleased to meet you."

Prince Arthur, somewhat taken aback at her straightforwardness, took her hand and gallantly bowed over it (to Phyllida's slight surprise).

"Charmed," he said, "Arthur, Prince of Camelot."

"Oh," she cried, quelling a nervous twitch, "I've heard of you."

He flashed her a devastating smile. "I bet you have."

Then he turned to his manservant. "Stop gawking, Merlin – you look like an idiot. And don't let me catch you dwadling. You still have armour to polish and laundry to do."

Merlin, who was still busy picking up his jaw from the floor where it was a hazard to mice and dust bunnies, finally regained his ability to talk.

"Erm … Phyllida's from Eowyn – a neighbouring village to Ealdor. She's … she's here to stay with me for a while."

"Cousin, eh?" Arthur smirked, "well, she's welcome – just don't let her visit here delay you more than usual – which is already too much."

"Of course, Sire." Merlin nodded.

The prince bid them both farewell and left their quarters.

"So that's the Prince Arthur you're so afraid of telling your secret of magic," Phyllida concluded "he seems an arrogant bastard – calling you an idiot and all."

Merlin grinned. "It's not so bad. I get to call him a dollophead and clotpole."

"A do …? No shit," Phyllida murmured, cocking her head, regarding the warlock, "and still you fear his reaction?"

"Yes. With good reason, too," Merlin pointed out, "after all – his father, the king, is very vigilant in eliminating every scrap of magic he can find."

"I have understood that much," the young girl said, shivering as she always did when reminded of her near escape from the pyre. "However," she continued, "if he allows you to call him a ... clotpole, he can't be that rigid after all."

"Perhaps not," Merlin granted her, "but what if he is just like his father on that particular issue?"

"That would be unfortunate," Phyllida admitted. "Indeed," came the young sorcerer's acquiescence.

The time traveller leaned forward and tapped her host's arm with her index finger. "However ... with your vast knowledge of him, accumulated through these past few years you have been working for him, is it, then, really plausible that he would turn you over to his father?"

Merlin looked down, answering with a voice she could scarcely hear: "I can't say for sure."

"Well, that's life, mate. You never can tell with life."

Merlin shrugged. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Well, maybe I can help you there," she smiled at him, "how about you pretend that I'm your boss ... master, and you tell me/Arthur that you have magic. This way you can practice your great reveal in a safe environment."

Merlin smiled softly. "Why not. At least, it won't do any harm."

Phyllida smiled back at him, eyeing some hope. Perhaps this make-believe would give the boy some confidence and he might actually take the big step?

Merlin cleared his voice. "Right. So how do we go about it?" Phyllida grinned openly. "Wait ... I'll don this and make it more believable for you." She extended an arm and grabbed a blue cape that lay over the back of a chair and flung it over her shoulders. Squaring her shoulders and popping out her chest, she threw back her head and attained an attitude of self-importance.

"Ahem ..." she started, "yes, what is it? Have you mucked out the stables and polished my armoury?"

Merlin couldn't help it, he laughed out loud, but Phyllida stiffened and said, staying in character: "How **dare **you! Go out and come in again once you have collected yourself."

"Sorry," Merlin giggled like a girl, "but that's spot on!"

Taking a couple of minutes, Merlin strangled his grin and knocked on the table.

"Come in," cried Phyllida/Arthur. Merlin approached. "Sire ... can I talk to you in confidence?"

Phyllida cocked an eyebrow, "What is it, Merlin? I have practice to attend to!"

That, Merlin thought, was actually completely believable.

"It will not take long, Sire."

"Very well, then. Snap to it."

The cat suddenly caught Merlin's tongue. He knew it was merely Phyllida that he was standing before, yet still he became very, very nervous as he was about to divulge his life's secret to this Arthur substitute.

"I ... you ... for a very long time..."

"Come on, come on. I haven't got all day, you oaf!"

Merlin let out a frustrated sigh. "Yes, that's probably what he would say."

Phyllida reached out a hand and tugged his sleeve. "It's all right. That's why we are practising this. Try again."

Merlin shook his shoulders, cleared his throat and started again. "It won't take long, Sire."

"Then out with it."

"Have you ever wondered, Arthur, how it is that you lead such a charmed life?"

"What do you mean, Merlin?"

"All those years ... every time you were in trouble and about to die ... something odd happened to bail you out in the last nick of moment?"

The female Arthur in front of him shrugged. "Charm and good luck, I suppose," she said, trying to emulate Arthur's smug grin. "What's your point?" she added.

Merlin sighed. Why was it so difficult for him even in this feigned situation?

"C'mon," _Arthur_ said, acting impatience, "out with it!"

"I ... I have been protecting you all these years, you know."

A supercilious, incredulous smirk met him. "_You?_"

_**MERLIN!**_

Both Phyllida and the young warlock jumped. This was the real prince yelling his impatience through the corridor.

"His master's voice," Phyllida said, her smirk still in place, "you better run to his rescue."

Merlin sighed. "Yeah. Thanks, Phyllida. We should probably address this later."

The second Merlin stepped over the threshold to the prince's chambers, Arthur shoved a heap of more laundry into his skinny arms. "**Finally**! Here's the rest of the laundry and you know where the armoury is."

Merlin received the heap with a strained smile that more than indicated that he would love telling the prince where to put it. Of course ... he did not. But one could dream, right?

"Straight away, Sire," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Excellent," Arthur smiled. "Come to the training arena when you're done!"

_Oh no! Fighting training!_

It suddenly occurred to him that he could stop all this demeaning treatment by engaging in the conversation that his future self had recommended.

Merlin inhaled and spread his legs to gain better foothold. Was this it? Was it now that he revealed his secret to Arthur?

"Arthur," he began.

"Hurry up, Merlin! Giddyap, giddyap!" The prince had already turned his back to his manservant.

Growling, Merlin turned and left the room a little faster than he had intended. That insufferable, supercilious, arrogant PRAT!

Fuming, on his way back through the corridor, Merlin hardly noticed that he almost collided with the Lady Morgana, who was coming out of her chamber, heavy lidded and yawning. The warlock murmured a slurred apology that she didn't even acknowledge, and it wasn't until he had rounded the corner that he stopped and leaned back to have another look at the seemingly exhausted lady. Yup. She was tired all right. Having been out all night again? The thought made him uneasy. Whatever Morgana was up to, one could be sure that her evil sister, Morgause would be part of it. Merlin bit his lip. If Arthur knew about this, they could both shadow Morgana and watch each others' backs. Merlin's lip almost started to bleed. But Arthur didn't know and he couldn't tell him; regardless of what his future self might be telling him.

If there was any stalking to be done, he would still have to do it alone.

x

"_**What**_? You haven't told him?"

Phyllida E. Dewhurst looked at the young sorcerer in disbelief. Merlin had returned before Gaius and had immediately been attacked by a wave of questions.

"Why the hell not?"

Merlin was shaking his head, his young, sensitive features displaying distress.

"I ... couldn't. And he wasn't about to let me tell him anything."

Phyllida threw her hands into the air. "**Merlin**! You should take your own **bloody **future advice seriously!"

Merlin shook his head even more vehemently, "what's the difference, really? That I die some time in the future or I'm burned on the pyre now."

"But you **won't **be," she said urgently, "that's the whole **point**! With your powers, you can always escape!"

"No, **you **are missing the point," he cried back at her, "if Arthur shuns me and turns me in, I will have to leave Camelot and Albion will never be! That is my destiny – my responsibility."

The archaeologist looked at him in surprise. "Could you, perhaps, elaborate on that?"

Merlin's shoulders fell as he exhaled deeply. Of course. She didn't know.

"It is written. It is my destiny to help Arthur unite the country and create Albion."

Phyllida blinked. This didn't make sense. "But there is no united country. In my time – the future – Eng... Albion consists of numerous smaller countries – like now."

Merlin turned to look at her, his eyes conveying nothing but intense shock. "I ... that's not right."

Phyllida nodded. "Yeah – it is. It's never been a united country."

Merlin staggered backwards, the enormity of the truth hitting him like a falling dolmen. "The ... country ... was never united?"

Phyllida suddenly became worried that the young man might faint on the spot. She reached out and grabbed his arm, piloting him carefully to a nearby chair. Once seated, he began to hyperventilate, his face paler than the bed linen.

"I ... have failed."

"Not yet," she pointed out, "you have given yourself a unique opportunity to change what has happened .. will happen – and ensure the creation of Albion. Grab it! For the love of god!"

The boy didn't answer, but sat silently on the chair, fighting for control. Phyllida looked at him in sympathy and decided to show him mercy and change the subject.

"On a different note," she said gently, "have you thought about a way to return me to the future?"

The devastated warlock shook his head pathetically. She sighed. "I have, but the book Gaius gave me didn't really offer a viable solution."

"Usually one shouldn't mess with time," Merlin murmured, "it takes great power and only ..." He stopped.

Phyllida looked at him intently and waited patiently. "Yes?" she finally urged. Then Merlin's expression changed rapidly and suddenly from one of gloom to one of elation.

"Of course," he emphasised, "I know somebody who can help us! Somebody old and wise!"

"Gaius?"

"Nono – older – and wiser!"

x

_**Ah, drakan, καλέω, δεῦτε!**_

Phyllida shook violently, cold to the bone, as her new friend shouted his quaint command into the chilly wind. She recognised the Homeric Greek language, but really didn't make any sense from the words. The night was black and the stars and moon clear on the sky. Nothing happened for a while and Phyllida was about to presume that the young sorcerer's spell for once had failed when she heard a strange flapping sound – almost like someone shaking their sheets in the wind, only a lot more powerful. Merlin handed her the torch and took two steps forward into the darkness, peering in front of him where something huge and heavy landed on the ground, making it shake in the impact. The warlock bowed.

"Hello, old friend."

"Good evening, young warlock. Who is your friend?"

What the ...? Phyllida held out the torch to get a better look and saw ...

"_**A DINOSAUR!**_"

The archaeologist stumbled backwards with a high pitched squeal and fell, losing the torch.

"I am **not** a dinosaur," Kilgharrah said, miffed.

Merlin stooped to retrieve the torch and helped Phyllida up from the ground with his other hand.

"This is Kilgharrah," he grinned at her, "he's a dragon."

"Di ...dinosaur," Phyllida insisted stubbornly, "a _Tyrannosaurus rex_!"

The great dragon growled and emitted steam of smoke through both nostrils. Merlin hastened to explain.

"This is Phyllida. It appears that I have sent her here from the future to give me a message."

Kilgharrah looked at Merlin in surprise.

"Indeed? What message was that?"

"That I should tell Arthur about myself. Apparently that would save me from being encapsulated in a crystal for thousands of years."

The dragon cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps it will."

"However, I summoned you, first and foremost, to ask if you know how to return this woman to her time? Our future?"

Kilgharrah squinted and eyed Phyllida very closely. The archaeologist averted her eyes, feeling very must exposed to this great creature's sharp glance. Then he rumbled an answer.

"Time is, indeed, a most volatile subject to meddle with ... and most unstable. Once disturbed, it can alter an entire era and not always for the good." Then he turned to Merlin.

"However, young warlock, if this was your future self sending you this woman to warn you, you must pay heed. I am certain you had ... will have ... a good reason."

"In her future, Albion hadn't happened. Not that I knew that, apparently."

"That is certainly reason enough. And you may have known it, too." The dragon turned its massive head to fix his eyes at Phyllida again, its reptilian pupils blinking vertically. The time traveller noticed the peculiar shine to its scales and its needle sharp teeth as it continued to speak:

"The only way to return to one's own time is if the spell that sent you here comprised the return words as well. Do you remember what Merlin said before you got here?"

"N.. no," Phyllida stammered, still not comfortable with being eyed by a 20 yards tall dinosaur with teeth the size of tree trunks.

"When will she know if those words were included?" Merlin asked on behalf of Phyllida, who clearly had issues with his friend's appearances.

"Once the problem she was sent here to communicate has been resolved, she will automatically be hauled back to her own time – if the return was included, that is."

Merlin nodded. This meant, of course, that unless he actually told Arthur, she wouldn't be going home. _Oh, swell_. Another responsibility.

Kilgharrah twisted his agile body into the air and took off, disappearing into the darkness with his large wings flapping loudly. Phyllida was still shaking even when they could no longer see him and Merlin had to forcibly drag her away.

"A surprise, eh?" he commented with a grin.

"You can say that again," she said, her teeth clattering, "we don't have that many dinosaurs in the future!"

xxx

Oyoy – so close and no cigar.

Will Phyllida persuade Merlin to tell Arthur, I wonder? ;)

And will Phyllida return to her own time. If she does, what will her time look like?


	6. The Significance of Clues

**Disclaimers**: I know, I know. All, except Phyllida E. Dewhurst, belongs to the BBC. No infringement intended.

CHAPTER 6

**The Significance of Clues**

Morgana stifled another yawn. Ignoring an urge to stretch her limbs and retreat to the silken sheets that she so had abandoned these past nights, she smoothed out her emerald green dress to complete her immaculate appearances and added some rouge to her cheeks, making sure she looked awake and alive. She would have to be careful and not let Uther see how tired she was in the morning when she was actually supposed to be rested after a long night's sleep.

The elegant lady closed the door behind her, taking care that the long train was not caught in the heavy oak door. The day before, she had met Merlin in the hallways as she was coming out with a wide open yawn on her face and she had hoped that he would not notice. On the other side, she hardly thought the young awkward serving boy would be so stupid as to follow her again, given what had happened the last time. A brief, flash of an evil smirk spread over her face. Morgause had had him at her mercy. She then wrinkled her nose bridge: She still couldn't fathom how he had escaped her sister's chains and the many blood thirsty serkets. It made no sense. Her sister's magic was much stronger than her own, and she knew for a fact that no one could have broken those enchanted chains. Somehow, he must have had help. The next time, they met him alone in the forest, it would be safer simply to kill him on sight. Employing the right spell, would make it look like death by highway robbers and no one would ask questions.

At any rate, they their regular nightly excursions would soon come to an end. The place, they, especially Morgause, had been looking for was within their reach, and as soon as her sister called for her, she would have to leave … despite the hour. Morgana leaned out of one of the Romanesque windows in the hallway. Down there, in the arena, Arthur was training, his inefficient idiot of a servant assisting him. She smirked; poor, defenceless Arthur. Alone or in the company of his useless squire he would not stand a chance against Morgause and herself.

The smirk widened into a broad grin.

x

_**CLANG!**_

Merlin's legs buckled and he staggered as his lanky body nearly went down from the weight of a ridiculously large morning star that landed on the fragile looking shield he had for sole protection. Attempting to brace himself against the next blow, he thrust upwards and met it half way, only to discover that this time the blow came on the edge of the shield which threw him off balance-wise entirely, falling on his knees into the soft turf. Gasping and scrambling to his feet, he made for a poor sight in the eyes of the battle-seasoned prince.

"Honestly! **Mer**lin! You have to **meet **the blow – not succumb to it! Can't you get anything right?"

To emphasise his words, the Prince swung the chain again and landed the heavy weapon directly in the centre of the shield that practically cracked under the sheer force, making the warlock's arm twist the wrong way. Merlin groaned and sank to his knees again. _There you go!_ This arm would definitely be multicoloured the following day.

Prince Arthur was about to deal him the final _coup de grace _when he suddenly caught the lithe figure of his manservant's visiting cousin in the corner of his eye. She looked quite pretty with her foxy hair, despite the short length of it, in that forest green dress and her young freckled face. Arthur was very much in love with Gwen, but that didn't mean he was dead to the female world; he found Merlin's relative very attractive. Even if she did look like a thunderstorm. Arthur blinked. What was she doing?

Phyllida was marching towards the blonde prince and didn't stop until she stood right in front of him. She gave Merlin one quick look and, completely ignoring the young sorcerer's swift shaking of his head, waved at him vehemently.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked with unmasked outrage, "two seconds more of bashing that shield, and you will have broken Merlin's arm. Is that what you want?"

"Um," Arthur said, completely taken aback, "we … we are training."

"No, **you **are training, and **he **is hurting. Why do you **do **this?"

Arthur finally got a grip, "look, while I'm sure Merlin appreciates your concern for him, I guarantee you that he won't be hurt. This a normal, straightforward practice, and ..."

"I don't know, Arthur. It doesn't look like the other knights are nearly as violent to their squires as you are," came a smug voice from behind. Arthur turned, incredulity dominating his eyes. "Well, if you held the shield the way I told you to, perhaps it would be a little easier for you, **Mer**lin!"

"**Look **at him," Phyllida insisted, making the Prince turn back to face her, "he's thin as a rake. You can't expect him to be strong as a well fed and fighting fit knight!"

Arthur had absolutely no idea how to defuse the situation and proceeded to gaze at Phyllida with an expression of total confusion. Merlin, on the other hand, was having a field day, smiling widely, ear to ear, making a mental note of commending his guest on her method of direct approach.

"Merlin's tougher than he look," was the Prince's feeble answer and nodded at his adversary, trying to convey that the conversation had lasted long enough. Phyllida went to her friend and took his arm to examine it, silently whispering to him:

"Clearly you haven't told him yet. Are you planning to later? Or do you want some more 'training' on the subject?"

"I'm just trying to find the right time," Merlin argued, mirroring her low volume.

"Which would be … when?"

"I can't say for sure."

"_Merlin_," she hissed, "I'm stuck here until you do!"

"I know, I know – _AU_!"

Obviously she had found a sore spot on the abused arm where, sure enough, artistic colours were spreading and evolving with alarming haste. She turned to the Prince again.

"See?"

And with that closing remark, she removed herself from the training arena, Arthur gawking at her back and Merlin rubbing his sore arm.

x

Back in Arthur's chambers, the prince quickly discarded his equipment and training clothes, throwing his chain mail on the table with a certain vehemence and a resounding noise. He turned to his manservant who had just managed to carry the armoury all the way from the training arena to the chambers, making his laboured breathing heard every step of the way.

"I daresay, Merlin. You **do **have a spirited cousin!"

Merlin winced, "yeah … I'm sorry," he said, huffing, "that part of the family has always been somewhat … concerned about my welfare."

"Very well," Arthur said, squinting at him. "Do you think she could keep her outburst to a minimum, at least in public?"

Merlin looked down sheepishly, "I shall talk to her about it."

The Prince nodded and continued his undressing. Merlin stood fiddling the armoury for a while, his facial expression one of conflicting emotions, and then, as if he had made a sudden decision, turned to address his master.

"Arthur … would you rather that I wasn't so … weak? I mean … would you prefer a … stronger servant?"

The Prince eyed him, a smirk creeping up his cheek. "You? Strong? Then who would I tease, then?"

"Oh... I didn't mean strong as much as in a physical sense. I meant … like if I had a special skill ..."

Arthur grinned and signalled Merlin to pour out some water for him. "But you **do **have a special skill, Merlin – you are absolutely a world champion in goofing round."

So impressed by his own magnificent wit that he could hardly control his mirth, Prince Arthur splashed the water into his face and onto his torso. Obviously, the concept of a skilled Merlin couldn't be farther from his thought.

_Well_, the sorcerer thought, _that was to be expected_; after all, he had always been goofing round as part of his cover. It had been a vital part of his plan to survive King Uther's reign. Now, this came back to bite him in his bony behind. Merely telling Arthur about his sorcerer skills might prove an unprecedented challenge – perhaps a certain display of evidence would have to be included. Merlin bit his lip. This was getting more and more complicated by the minute.

x

The next morning truly bore witness to the richness of the full season of spring. Phyllida was awakened by birds singing so loudly that she almost felt like covering her ears with her hands just to prolong that sweet morning drowsiness that the state between sleep an being awake was so pregnant with.

Stretching her slim form, she nearly fell off the cot, which made her decide to get up for good. Quickly, she dressed herself, idly wondering how she could get another dress as this already seemed dirty enough to be cleaned and then left Merlin's room.

The rightful owner of the cot sat on the window sill in Gaius' lab, looking out and into the streets of Camelot with an attentive glance and natural curiosity. Phyllida smiled at the sight of his too largely fitting clothes, dark unruly hair, his smooth facial skin, soft innocent eyes and gangly body line; he was just a young boy and he had the destiny of an entire country on his very thin and frail shoulders. _Frailty, Thy Name is Merlin_, she felt inclined to (mis)quote. Yet these past few days, she had come to realise that he was surprisingly sturdy.

The young sorcerer seemed so enwrapped in his self-chosen task of carefully watching Life go by that he hardly noticed her approach. Still, he didn't jump when she talked to him.

"Anything interesting going on?"

"Yeah," he murmured, "the Lady Morgana is coming home from a nightly excursion … again."

"Oh – she's the one you told me to avoid?"

"Yes … don't go **near** her!" he was now looking at her directly, emphasising his point.

"Why?"

Merlin lowered his voice, "She is the King's ward and she has magic … but not in a good way. She has chosen to use it for evil."

Phyllida's eyebrows made it to her brow. "Does the King know this?"

"Certainly not. He is blind to her every fault. He would have our heads if we even suggested anything negative about her."

Phyllida grimaced. "oh, that's ugly."

Her host nodded. "And now she goes out every night. I know she's up to some mischief – plotting against the King or something and there's nothing I can do about it."

"How about following her and thwart her plans?"

Now it was Merlin's turn to grimace. "Tried it once. Not to be recommended. She has this unpleasant sister, Morgause, who wrapped me in chains and threw me to the serkets."

"Serkets?"

"Giant scorpions."

"Oh, nice."

Merlin sighed .. and jerked, his eyes widening in a shock of realisation.

"I have to go! Seeing her and talking to you has already made me late!"

The lanky young man got to his feet surprisingly fast and rushed past Phyllida, who frowned, having the most unsettling impression that there was something familiar about the way the young warlock looked this morning. But she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"How about something to eat?" Gaius cried after him as he saw the backside of his apprentice disappear through the door.

"I'm late!" Merlin yelled back and took the hallway in three steps. _Again!_ thought Gaius. This boy would be late for his funeral.

x

Lady Morgana reached into her closet to change dresses. Another strenuous night and not a chance to get some sleep before going to the King for breakfast. She very much wondered how long she could keep it up. Make-up could cover the dark circles under her eyes, but keeping from yawning was getting increasingly more difficult, she'd have to …

_Oh!_

The sorceress felt it keenly, felt it in her very soul, in her being, inside her mind. Her sister calling. Some people with magic needed crystals to communicate with each other, and in the beginning, she and Morgause had used various means to get hold of each other. Now, however, their bond was so infinitely strong and intimate that those primitive methods were history. Morgana smiled – and then yawned. She had just returned from her nightly activity with her sister, yet Morgause was calling her again. That could not be a coincidence.

Had she, Morgana wondered, finally found the crystal cave?

x

It bugged her.

It really, really bugged her.

And it had bugged her all morning.

Phyllida E. Dewhurst was an archaeologist and as such used to digging and finding long lost artefacts and secrets. This included digging in her own mind when she was trying to put together a thesis for a research project. And she knew for a fact that she had seen or recognised something this morning that was a vital importance, a missing piece of a puzzle. Something about Merlin when he left for Arthur's chambers. She was sure of it.

Phyllida sighed and leaned back in her chair by the table where she had just had her breakfast. The place was deserted but for herself as Gaius had left for his rounds and wouldn't be back for hours. The intense spring sun was peeping through every orifice of Gaius' and Merlin's home, highlighting dust particles to the extreme. They distracted her. Closing her eyes, she threw her mind and memory back to when the warlock was sitting on the window sill and she was talking to him. No … that's not where the feeling arose. Then he got up, hurried out, Gaius was shouting something … no, rewind … Merlin got up. Phyllida concentrated hard on conjuring up the image of the young sorcerer. The way his long limbs connected with the floor, his sensitive face eager to go and slightly worried that he would be late, his lanky shape looking way too thin in the clothes that clearly was too big for him …

… the clothes.

_**THE CLOTHES!**_

A shock of recognition and realisation rushed through the time traveller and sent an ice cold shiver down her spine as she understood the implications of her findings. She had recognised the clothes! Not from the previous days. Not from the day before. Not the individual pieces of clothing. Merlin usually changed between a red shirt and a blue neckerchief or a blue shirt and a red neckerchief – and sometimes a dark blue jacket to go with it. Today, this morning, the combination had been blue shirt, red neckerchief – AND A BROWN JACKET!

The exact combination of clothes she had seen him wear in the cave when she got him out of the crystal about 2000 years into the future.

Phyllida took a deep breath to still herself. It was important that she get this right. On the other hand, she could not afford to be too late if this was, indeed, the day when Merlin would be trapped in the cave. She looked round her. Gaius had left which meant she could not consult him. Arthur still didn't know anything and was thus worthless as an ally.

First things first. She would go to Prince Arthur to see if Merlin was still here; and if he was, it would certainly prove very easy to stop whatever he had planned for the day.

Phyllida didn't waste any time, but bolted out through the door and rushed down the hallway, running very in a very un-ladylike fashion, her arms swinging and her heel hammering into the stone surface. She didn't have to run very far. Round the second corner came Arthur towards her with an inquisitive expression on his face.

"Phyllida," he arrested her, "you haven't, by any chance, seen Morgana, have you? The King would like to see her."

"The lady Morgana?" Phyllida wrinkled her forehead, already scant of breath, more from excitement than exertion, "perhaps she is … sleeping?" she suggested, remembering what Merlin had told her of the witch's nightly excursions.

"No, I have just been to her chambers. There's no sign of her."

The young archaeologist looked at him, first in puzzlement, then in horror as everything suddenly made terrible sense to her. Everything came together! All the facts fitted: the evil witch, now missing, and her sister, Merlin who had been captured by her once before, Merlin's all too familiar clothing combination...

"Have you seen Merlin?" she asked without preamble, panic obvious in her voice and ignoring the Prince's question .

"No," Arthur replied, annoyed, "come to think of it, the bloody idio... sorry, the … um; he never returned to my chambers after I sent him to the kitchen."

"How long is that since?"

Arthur shrugged, "an hour or more."

To the Prince's great surprise, the girl in front of him suddenly grabbed his arms with a vengeance, shaking him urgently, her expression being one of utter desperation.

"My lord, I have spoken harshly to you before, but now I apologise and ask that you **must **trust me and come with me – **now**, please."

Arthur gaped, about to say something, but stopped himself when he looked into her auburn eyes and saw only sincerity. "We may even be too late already," she added.

x

The air was chilly despite the luscious display of sharp sun, yet the archaeologist still felt cold, not having taken time to don a cape or its like when she ran to find the Prince. _It will have to do_, she thought, the main thing would be that they catch up with the sorcerer in time.

Not being able to ride a horse to save her life, Phyllida was sharing a horseback with the Prince. Clinging to the young man like someone who had no intention of ever letting go, she gave Arthur muffled instructions as where to go. She knew only one route and it was probably not the quickest, but Merlin was on foot and they on horse, which gave them a substantial advantage.

"Perhaps you could tell me more about what's going on?" Prince Arthur said, half turning his face to address her.

"It will be very clear when we get there," she assured him, "suffice it to say that Merlin took it upon himself to stalk a sorceress and I'm afraid he's in over his head, here."

"_**Sorceress**_?" she felt how the Prince stiffened with antipathy and something resembling anger and she began to understand some of Merlin's fear of opening up to his master on this subject. "Then we should have brought the army," he continued.

"We would hardly be going stealth, then," she pointed out, "and whoever's got Merlin would surely kill him when he heard that many soldiers approaching."

Arthur had to admit that there was something in that, and Phyllida's respect for the man grew; how many medieval royalties would single-handedly (not counting herself since she would be worth absolutely zilch if it came to hand-to-hand battle) engage in a quest to retrieve his missing manservant? This, above anything else, convinced her that Arthur valued his friendship with Merlin more highly that his inherited antipathy towards magic. She was confident that she had taken the correct decision and that this step wouldn't lead to Merlin's early acquaintance with the pyre.

Besides, what else could she have done? If Merlin was buried in that crystal right here and now, she would be stuck in these times forever. Even if they got there five minutes too late, they still couldn't get Merlin out of the crystal. After all, using only the remote power of his mind, it must have taken the warlock centuries to extract and combine the compounds of the blue powder that got him out of the crystal. How could they even hope to break him free this early?

x

At first, the young warlock had lost track of the swift lady, however by sending out a mute spell, he extended his hearing and eventually caught her light footsteps going west. Two hours later, he finally heard her slow down and eventually stop. As he stopped also, he took time to scrutinise his surroundings and that's when he realised with a gasp.

He'd been there before.

Arthur had been hurt! And that's when it hit him. This was the area where the Crystal Cave was situated! With a chill down his spine, Merlin was beginning to understand what it was the two witch sisters had been looking so hard for and he stopped dead in his tracks. He was headed directly for the cave where Phyllida had found him trapped in a large crystal!

Merlin almost lost his breath. He couldn't do this! He had no back-up. He had told no one where he was going, and most likely he would be up against the two witches if they discovered him.

The warlock concentrated on controlling his thundering heart that seemed to have lost all sense of even pace. If he just kept calm, this disaster could be averted. Yes, that was it. He would stay hidden and observe only instead of bursting in where angels fear to tread. Perhaps they were actually planning to capture both Merlin and the Prince in a crystal, and the only way to thwart their plans would be to disclose them?

Thoughts continued to roam helter skelter in the warlock's mind until he finally took a decision: He would go to the cave and keep a low profile; after all, now that he knew the future, he would be ready and on account of this knowledge, it may not come to pass.

Merlin steeled himself and proceeded through the forest.

x

"I'm beginning to recognise this," Prince Arthur said as they cantered softly on the moist forest floor, following the path that Phyllida instructed. She wasn't surprised. After all, these woods were the property of Camelot. Besides, didn't Merlin say that he had been in that crystal cave before? Could have been in the company with the prince, no less.

x

Trying very hard to look like a trunk, the young warlock moved from tree to tree, closing in on the Crystal Cave. Extending his ears again, he could now hear Morgana's voice, which meant, of course, that she was talking to someone. As he steadily and stealthily moved closer, he was almost certain that that someone was Morgause, just as he thought it would be. Merlin held his breath. He was finally by the cave. He took a second to gather his thoughts. Now, it was important to stay in the shadows; he would have to keep completely still and unseen. It was a vital importance.

As the warlock crept along the cave wall, one careful step at a time, the voices grew gradually louder and the display of emotion was easier to interpret. Morgause sounded frustrated, her sister less so, though trying to calm the blonde sorceress down. One step more and Merlin made sure to crouch behind a rock to avoid detection. Yes, there they were, among all the glittering crystals that instantly disturbed Merlin's eyes with all their moving images. He shut his eyes tight, refusing to let himself be drawn in by them, and resorted to listening instead.

"... patience, sister. You will learn by time, I am sure of it."  
>"I need to learn <strong>now<strong>! Damn it. Why won't these blasted crystals talk to me!"

_The crystals_, Merlin thought, _Morgause cannot wield them_! What would she do, he wondered, if she knew that he could?

"We're very close," Phyllida cried, and then put a hand over her own mouth as Arthur hissed at her and her loud voice. "Yes, I recognise the place," he said in a low voice, "we were once chased by bandits here, Merlin and I."

"There is a cave down that slope," the archaeologist whispered in his ear. Arthur turned to look at her in surprise. This, he did not know. "How do you know?" he whispered back.

"Been there," she said. "Now is not the time for questions. Merlin's in trouble."

"You stay here by the horses, then," the prince said as he got off.

"Not an option," Phyllida opinioned in no uncertain terms as she got off as well, trying to land as softly and inaudibly as possible when she jumped from the considerable hight of the horse.

"Your magic is not yet strong enough to look in the crystals," Morgause stated, her voice still hard with disappointment, yet perhaps with our joined effort ..."

She turned to Morgana and grabbed her hands. "Perhaps we can do it. If we concentrate hard and long enough, we may be able to break the secret of the crystals. Get ready, sister, throw your mind into our mutual pool of magic and repeated after me ..."

_GROWL_.

"What was that?"

Behind his rock, Merlin grimaced with vexation. Oh no. His blasted stomach. Still, if he kept perfectly still, they might just ignore …. _Groooooowwwwlll._

_**Bother!**_

"Who is there? **Come out**!" Morgause boomed, raising her hands into magic position. Merlin bit his lip. Unbidden images of his capture in the crystal suddenly pressed on in his mind. _I am going down despite my precautions_. He could have avoided this if he had listened to Phyllida and his own gut feeling! This was almost impossible to bear. Perhaps he could make a run for it? He wasn't keen on being buried in a crystal. No, running would probably be the wisest action. After all, he was here on his own – nobody had his back.

xxx

**TBC!**


	7. The Crystal Cave and Epilogue: Albion

**Disclaimers**: Still the BBCs – no matter what I do. ;) Phyllida is mine.

**A/N**: So – _once more unto the breach, dear friends_. Last instalment - I hope you enjoy it.

Whayah! I got a review! (does a happy, little dance). Thanks, Dee - I owe you one. :-D

CHAPTER 7

**The Crystal Cave**

Eyes rigidly fixed ahead of him, intent on every detail and ears straining to pick up any minuscule sound, Prince Arthur and his lady companion silently slid through the entrance and into the corridor of the Crystal Cave. They hadn't come far before something caught their ears.

"Did you hear that?" he heard Phyllida hiss at him. He nodded. There had been muffled speech – people; and something growling. A beast?

Without warning, Merlin's shielding rock mysteriously disappeared into thin air and his crouching form sat face to face with Morgause's vengeful face.

Morgana gasped at the sight of him. "You!"

"Me," Merlin admitted lamely. "Beautiful place you have here."

_Oh, my god_, he thought, his mind reeling, _this is it! I am about to be buried alive!_ He was up against **two **witches, no less. Like a madman, the warlock frantically paged through every single spell he had learned and memorised since the day he arrived in Camelot. There **had **to be way to counteract the witches' magic.

Both Arthur and his female companion froze in a crouched position; they had both heard and recognised the unmistakable cheeky tone of Merlin's voice. And, unfortunately, Arthur recognised the other voice as well. "Morgause," he mouthed, more to himself than to Phyllida, who had no knowledge of the name of Morgana's sister. Merlin's 'cousin' looked at him with big enquiring eyes. Unable to answer her mute question, the Prince signalled to proceed, and on all four, they slowly crawled forward, trying to make as little noise as possible.

A few minutes later, they set their wondering eyes on the most beautiful place they had ever seen. Even to Phyllida, the crystal cave had never been more spectacular. She barely managed to contain her glee as she let her hungry eyes roam the place with its blindingly beautiful stalagmites and stalactites, glittering in each other's reflection and casting rainbow colours all over the cave wall where stunning patterns were cast in a cornucopia of kaleidoscope creations. Mouth open wide and her archaeological soul aroused to the point of elation, she turned to look at the Prince, who, however, had his eyes fixed on the tall lithe figure with the long blonde hair, who had raised her arms and was pointing at … Merlin, who was standing before her like a hunted gangly roebuck.

With a roar of annoyance, Morgause thrust her arms forward and threw the skinny manservant's body into the air where it, none too gently, connected with the rock surface from whence he slid down like a broken rag doll, limp and dishevelled.

"You have spied on us for the last time!" Morgause said, furious, taking her sister's hand while still showering Merlin with spells with the other. "I will not make the same mistake twice, though I cannot for the death of me grasp how you got out of the serkets' nest."

Another roar mirrored the first and out of nowhere came the avenging prince, his sword raised high above his head, and his expression marred by the wrath of the righteous as he brought down his weapon across the witch's outstretched arms. Phyllida recoiled in horror. The sword went straight through both the woman's skinny arms, bringing down the limbs to writhe like bizarre snakes on the cave floor. She screamed. Or, wait, was it Morgana or her sister, who screamed?

Phyllida saw the witch slump to the floor, bleeding profusely from both arm stumps. Then all of a sudden, it was the Prince, who flew through the air and collided with the rock wall, approximately on the same spot where his manservant had crashed into the stone just moments before. Arthur gasped and winced. It had been hard, but not hard enough to render him unconscious; he looked down, gasping for breath as some invisible force appeared to squash his lungs.

The force emanated from Morgana; dark, beautiful, terrible and furious, with her arms raised, sending one tendril of energy after the other in his direction. Arthur didn't understand what he was seeing. She had been a victim, right? The witch Morgause had had both Merlin and Morgana at her mercy, right? Yet, it was undeniably she, Morgana, who was pinning him to the rock wall. Then she opened her blood red mouth, making her brother understand a little more of what was going on.

"**Arthur, you pathetic son of a bitch queen and a bastard king, and unfortunately MY BROTHER. You have murdered my sister! And I will make you pay, writhe in pain as you lose your extremities, limb for limb. You shall perish right here and now, and I will bury you along side with your useless serving boy in this hidden cave where no one will find you!**"

Clearly she hadn't seen Phyllida E. Dewhurst, who, in the meantime, had managed to reach Merlin, who had been knocked out of his wits and now lay dazed on the cave floor. She stuck out a hand and as discreetly as possible tried to shake him back to consciousness. She didn't succeed until she got hold of his prominent ears and gave them a good pinch. Joggling his head gingerly, Merlin came back to the present with impressive swiftness. Phyllida didn't have to update him on the current situation; the vision in front of him told him everything he needed to know.

Not even contemplating the repercussions his actions would have, he got up on staggering feet and immediately raised his hand towards Morgana and accompanied it with a spell:

_**Ástríce!**_

Surprise was evident in the young witch's face as an unseen power threw her into the air and crash-landed her next to her mutilated sister, who had bled to death already. Several things happened at the same time: Arthur slid down from the wall with a confused expression on his face, Phyllida got up to see if he was hurt and a shocked Morgana raised her weak arm feebly at Merlin, who just shook his head at her.

"_You_!" the witch groaned, "no … this cannot be true!"

"I'm sorry, Morgana," the warlock said hoarsely, his voice full of sadness and his heart still reaching out to this miserable soul, who only harboured hatred and bitterness in her heart.

"How … all this time?" she was shaking her head in disbelief, eyes brimming over.

"All this time," Merlin echoed her.

Phyllida had satisfied herself that the Prince of Camelot was unharmed and was now watching the scene before her with a certain fascination. When she saw Merlin lower his powerful hand with a soft expression on his face, she cried out: "NO! For heaven's sake, **kill **her!"

But he couldn't. This was not Merlin to kill a person lying down. Morgana immediately sensed his procrastination, and her face hardened as her eyes changed colour.

And in a flash and with an ear piercing scream, she disappeared.

Back in the cave stood a completely bewildered prince, a devastated warlock … and a time traveller who felt out of place more than ever. On the floor lay the remains of a once powerful witch, whose blood was soaking the cave floor to the extent that the colour was repeated mercilessly in each and every crystal and projected onto the cave wall like a grotesque laser show. The whole place was shining red in a dance macabre, mocking her death in every shade and aspect of the colour.

Phyllida turned and noticed the looks the two men exchanged, one inquisitive and angry and confused and one fearful and apologetic. She cleared her voice. "Ahem. I should probably disappear and leave you boys to talk," she said, beginning to take a step backwards. Then .. she noticed that her hands were … transparent. She turned them round, looking at them with growing panic. She was, indeed and literally, disappearing!

As if he hadn't had shocks enough to last him a year, Arthur now saw the woman he knew as Merlin's cousin vanish into thin air. Merlin took a step forward, pain etching his young face. "No...," he said, his voice soft, vulnerable and sad. Phyllida opened her mouth and tried to shout one last word to him.

"It's all right! This is good!"

However, all that the two young boys caught was 'It's all..." and the rest disappeared in a whisper with the time traveller.

x

Prince Arthur had moved to the fallen witch's dismembered corpse. Her two severed arms lay some distance from her remains, and in some odd parody of last respect for a slain foe, Arthur picked up the limbs and reunited them with the body.

Then he turned to face his best friend and manservant through five years. He saw a young man with a sensitive face and a pair of eyes that conveyed sad fear. And that's when it really occurred to him: The person who had just saved his life and whose life he had just saved … was afraid of him. Arthur found that he had mixed feelings about this realisation. He had to ask.

"Why are you afraid of me? From what I have just seen, you can flatten me any time you'd like."

There was a certain harshness to his voice. On one hand, this was just good ol'e goofy Merlin, who never would harm anyone in his life. On the other side, he had just seen the same manservant throw a witch round with the same ease that you would a rag doll. And where did Morgana fit into all this? So many things he didn't understand.

And the third witch – Phyllida? Too many questions. Arthur shook his head gently. One issue at a time.

"I would never flatten you," came Merlin's gentle voice. "I would gladly submit to any mercy or punishment you bestow on me. My only fear is that this revelation would end our friendship."

Arthur rose, and for once didn't sneer at the word 'friendship' in connection with his manservant.

"For how long have you had this … curse upon you?"

Merlin frowned, not too happy with the prince's choice of words.

"I was born with it, and I don't see it as a curse." The warlock rested his hands on his hips, looking even more miffed. "Do you know how many times I have saved your royal bottom?"

Arthur looked down and couldn't help smirking.

"Now, that's the Merlin I know," he remarked.

"I'm no different from before," Merlin pointed out. "The only difference is – now you know more about me than you did."

Arthur's smiled disappeared, but the sternness didn't return. Instead, he looked anxious.

"You've been lying to me all this time?"

"Well, wouldn't you? Given the ban on magic?"

"I wouldn't have gone anywhere near Camelot in the first place," the Prince stated.

The young sorcerer didn't reply at first. Instead, he took a few seconds to scrutinise the Prince's face. It looked pretty much how his own must look: bathed in a surreal light of blood red, making it very difficult to really read his expressions.

"It is my destiny," Merlin finally said, his voice back to soft, "my solemn duty and destiny is to protect you, my liege, and help you unite Albion."

Arthur opened his mouth and was about to offer some saucy reply as to the implausibility of Merlin helping him do anything, when he remembered: Merlin had magic!

Merlin has magic.

Somehow, he just couldn't wrap his mind round that fact. Yet he had seen what he had seen.

"Will you turn me over to the King?" Merlin asked, his head bowed as if awaiting his doom.

Arthur started, his mind not even having reached the point of Merlin's further fate.

"I don't … Merlin, I ..." Arthur said, confused, "probably … not. But I..."

Helpless, he just stopped and raised his head to look at the young boy that had been his manservant for years, always loyal, always faithful – always cheeky. He took a couple of minutes to think and then he sighed.

"Had I not seen it with my own eyes, Merlin, I would never … But you have been very faithful as my manservant and I have never known you to spare yourself. I remember you even tried to turn yourself in once."

"Twice," Merlin murmured. Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "Really? When was the second time?"

Merlin opened to his mouth to answer when the Prince just stopped him.

"You know what? No … forget that. Instead, I need to know everything from the start – ending with this odd thing with your 'cousin' or whoever she was."

Merlin looked at his master and a slow smile started spreading over his facial features, his eyes beaming away, his normally crystal blue eyes now crystal red. He had a good feeling! This was actually going to be all right. He nodded his acquiescence to Arthur and turned to follow him out of the blood red cave that glinted a little too ominously for his taste.

On his way out, one particular crystal caught his eye inadvertently; about to divert his glance and not wanting to see the moving images of the prophetic crystal, a certain recognisable shape caught his attention after all and he grinned.

_Phyllida!_

Phyllida coming out of the cave, the surroundings looking differently, her long forest green dress caught in twigs and roots and the archaeologist swearing. And then Phyllida sitting on some sort of leather seat, looking directly at him as if she knew he was watching, her eyes sparkling and her radiant smile flashing and her mouth saying something ...

Merlin laughed back at her.

Yes, things were definitely going to be all right.

EPILOGUE

**Albion**

The dust and dirt were choking her to the extent that she almost gagged. Her already strained lungs working overtime, she only just managed to cough up various leaves and twigs and after several minutes of harking, she finally breathed more freely, despite the sharp pain in the upper part of her chest. Phyllida dusted off the dirt from her eyes, blinked gingerly and lifted her head, now ready to examine her surroundings more closely. She was still in the Crystal Cave.

The first rush of disappointment quickly subsided as she got up on quivering legs and realised that there was no grotesquely dismembered corpse on the floor, reflecting the red blood in the entire cave; there were no debris or sign of a giant crystal having exploded into a thousand little pieces. There were, however, dirt everywhere, a hole instead of an entrance and her cave lamp, still working and casting light in cascades all over the place.

She was back!

Back to her own time, her own life.

Still coughing in short little huffs, she suddenly began to laugh. Oh, boy! It had been a dream! A wild, extraordinary, crazy dream that …

… and that's when she saw what she was wearing.

A very dirty forest green dress of the 1st century.

_The Lord have mercy on me! It wasn't a dream!_

At least … that's what she expected a Carbon-14 dating to prove.

Despite her many years of experience of spilanking, the archaeologist suddenly felt very claustrophobic. On staggering legs, she zig-zagged between the woods of stalagmites and stalactites and onto the slope by which she had slid down when she first came there. Trembling, still suffering from adrenaline shock, she then crawled out of the excavated entrance and hauled herself onto the forest floor, using the rope she had left there. Finally out in the open, she immediately and gratefully recognised the first entrance she had discovered an eternity ago. What was more – the mist had gone and everything was now visible. She almost cried in relief. There was the camp – and what was more, there was the car! Stumbling, tears running down her face, she limped to the vehicle and tried the door. Locked. Annoyed, she stuck her hand into her pocket... except, there was no pocket in this dress. And that's when she realised with a pang: She'd left the keys in the 1st century!

Swearing and grunting, she sat down on a tree stub, rustling up leaves and twigs, to think through her dilemma. Imagine that. To have come this far and be stumped by not having any blasted car keys! _Don't let this get you down, Phyl – think! Work the problem! _

She knew she was about two hours from the nearest town; she was thirsty as hell and she had no water; she had no mobile (it had remained in the 1st century, in her field bag and was burned on the pyre together with her iPad); she was, in short, in deep shit.

Phyllida E. Dewhurst rose. Well, she had been in worse pickles – being burned on the stake, just to mention one. Her thirst would probably be quelled at the next brook, if it was running, it was probably healthy. And she would go to the road that was bound to be asphalted now and a car would no doubt come by soon.

This was, after all, the 21st century.

Fifteen minutes later, she was picked up by a car. It felt very odd, sitting in the modern car seat of cool leather and looking at the landscape that went by so quickly. The driver was a middle aged, bulky person with very little hair, dark glasses and a tie that his wife definitely had not picked out. Well … she was a fine one to talk. She felt him eyeing her.

"Nice outfit," he smirked, "is there a medieval fair round here?"

_My god, that was my line once,_ she thought with irony.

"Fashion," she deadpanned, "what can you do?"

"Right," the burly man grinned, "I'm taking you to Pontypridd. Is that all right?"

"Where is that?"

"Here," the driver reached over her and pulled a map out of the glove compartment, "it's about 30 miles of where we are now."

Phyllida took the card and unfolded it. She quickly located where she had been picked up and trailed the route from there to where he was taking her.

It wasn't until she folded it back again that she noticed that something was very different – different from what she used to know. Slowly she unfolded it again, scouring the paper and her trained archaeologist eyes quickly finding what she was looking for.

And there it was, staring her in her face: On top of the map, it read:

**UNITED KINGDOM**

And then Phyllida laughed. And laughed. Not caring that the driver was beginning to think that he had let a dangerous nutter into his car. Into the air, seemingly addressed to no one in particular, the archaeologist said loudly:

"You did it, Merlin! You and Arthur together! You united Albion. Good on you!"

It was probably her imagination, but she almost got the impression that he heard her.

The end


End file.
